
Book iOA_ 




J. J. PETERSON, 



PETERSON'S Poems 



BY 

J. J. PETERSON 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

JOSEPH TYLER BUTTS 




F. TENNYSON NEELY CO. 

NEW YORK LONDON 



THE LIBRARY OfI 

CO ^' OR ESS, 
Two GuPitd Received 

OCT. 8 1901 

I COFYRIOHT ENTRY 

CLASS O^XXa No 
COPY J. 



NO. 

J 



753J'3I 



Copyright, i90»» 

by 

J. J. PETERSON, 

in the 

United Sutes 

and 

Great Britain. 

All Rights Reserved. 

Entered at 
Stationers* Hall, London. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introduction vu 

The Rover 33 

Reflections 5^ 

When Sorrow Sits 107 

The Speculation no 

To Mamie 112 

The Love We Ne'er Can Know 116 

To LiDA 119 

To Catherine 121 

A Wine Song 123 

The Parting 125 

Dejection '^V 

A Toast 129 

A Pilgrim's Last Prayer 130 

A Wish 131 

To Alice 132 

Love's Link I37 

The Passion of Hate I39 

But Still My Heart Refuses Rest 141 

There is a Dream : There is a Sleep 144 

The Judgment I47 

Notes on Reflection i55 



PREFACE. 

In presenting this collection of poems to the 
public, I desire to state, not in justification, but 
in mitigation, that almost all of them, includ- 
ing *The Rover," and nearly all of the verses 
entitled ''Reflections," were written by me when 
only eighteen years of age. 

I do not deem my mind to have strengthened 
sufficiently since that time, for the revision of 
the verses, should they require that treatment. 
Perhaps more mature years (I being now only 
twenty-one years of age) will show me the 
faults in my diction, which now only the can- 
did criticism of a watchful public shall disclose. 
The plea of infancy has never been allowed in 
bar to the unwisdom of writing poetry; but I 
do not insist upon that plea in full justification 
of my offense, but would also interpose the fact 
of extensive travels, roamings and wanderings 
made by me before and after the writing of my 



vi Preface. 

poems, whicli prevented me from devoting that 
time to study and meditation which I should 
have wished. 

The verses under the title of "Reflections" 
are verses written at random, and Hnked to- 
gether under this broad title. 

Trusting that these feeble efforts shall be 
awarded that merit which they deserve, and 
that censure which they shall doubtless meet, 
with the knowledge of all who shall judge, that 
nothing human can be perfect, I submit my 
youthful labors before the severe eye of the 
critic. Respectfully, 

THE AUTHOR 
EuTAW, Alabama. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Songs have been the deepest source of 
strength and solace to the human mind, since 
the ages when the minstrel Tyrtaios kindled 
with his voice the torch of patriotism, inspiring 
the Spartan warriors to deeds of unexampled 
bravery. Early history would be utterly un- 
known were it not for the bards whose voices 
are still heard in the thrilling epics which have 
become immortal. 

The melody of a beautiful voice holds an 
eternal charm, and when the tones breathe 
the lines of a gifted poet it sways the soul to do 
its bidding, be it the soothing lullaby, the 
passionate song of a lover or the battle hymn 
of the soldier. Poetry set to song expresses 
and induces all emotions and all passions. Its 
scope is limitless, its powers inestimable, and 



viii Introduction. 

every pulse of the human heart responds in 
sympathy to the genius who has created it. 
So it is in the remarkable collection of verses 
held between these covers. 

It is seldom in this prosaic age that we find 
a soul so intensely romantic, so deeply con- 
scious of the purpose and possibilities of life, 
its gladness and its sorrow, its pain and its 
power, as the poet who fashioned these verses. 
Still stranger is it that this mature mind should 
be possessed by a youth of but eighteen, yet 
whose broad intelligence cannot be doubted 
after reading his work "The Rover," in the 
harmonic cadences of which life and death, 
hope and hate, bitterness and tenderness, al- 
ternate in rhythmic flow. 

The pathetic ending is so touching, yet deep 
and forceful, one can but admire the genius of 
the writer while he weeps at his own weak- 
ness. 

Who has not heard the buoy-bell's song, yet 
failed to hear its words until finding here the 
key to its meaning? No more plaintive mel- 
ody has ever been sung, — not one better under- 
stood than by this author. 

Its voice, after reading these lines, will ever 



Introduction. ix 

be heard, both on land and sea. The short 
verses are overflowing with originahty; their 
charm is irresistible, and their beauty will win 
a place in the hearts of all who love as well as 
those who hate. 

Nothing could be more logical, strong, and 
impressive than the verses on the "J^^^^^^t.'* 
The most scornful cynic, or the most blase 
egotist, could not read it without a shiver of 
dread, and the keenest thrills of awe. 

This little volume will find its way into the 
minds of those who know their favorite poets 
"by heart," and it is predicted with confidence, 
that these verses will live, and that the author, 
gifted with a rare talent, will take rank among 
the poets, whom the world delights to honor. 

The literary style of "The Rover," recalls 
with irresistible force the poetic works of 
Walter Scott. We find in many of the pas- 
sages all the unspeakable sadness of the "Lay 
of the Last Minstrel." For example: 

'*Old halls," said he, ''to-morrow's night 
Will find your master far from here; 
The stars shall he his lonely light, 
And guide his soul — he cares not where! 



X Introduction. 

The ocean wave shall bear him on. 
The storm shall be his dwelling place. 
For, soon, he from thee must be gone. 
He cannot love his native race! 
Old halls, he loathes to leave you so, 
For memories haunt thy silent ways, 
But fate is fate and woe is woe. 
He leaves! This debt to grief he pays'* 

Then again it seems the reader can almost 
hear and feel the marvelous dash and spirit of 
Scott's "Marmion," in lines like these: 

"He had no hope, he knew no fear, 
He scorned a smile, and scoffed a tear; 
With the whole world he was at war. 
He hated everything he saw. 
And since he'd left his native land 
He'd trod the shores of many a strand. 
And trifled many a virgin's hand. 
He seemed to long to rove, to rove; 
The ocean was his only love — 
On its free plains he loved to stay, 
And in its billow loved to play — 
Nor did he reck' his desert home — 
His dzvelling place was on the foam, 
And on it he was wont to roam" 



Introduction. xi 

Excerpts, however, can scarcely give an 
adequate understanding of the power displayed 
by the author in the well-sustained flow of his 
romantic narrative. The whole must be read 
to realize the artistic skill with which the author 
develops his theme. 

There must be a great spiritual rather than 
commercial reward to a publisher in the satis- 
faction of having paved the way of a young 
poet toward the lofty halls of success and pop- 
ularity. It has become proverbial that of all 
authors, poets find it hardest to get a hearing 
at the gates of those who hold the magic wand 
that brings renown; in other words, the pub- 
lishers. Certainly no pecuniary reward can 
measure with the satisfaction which a publisher 
must cherish in bringing to the light of popu- 
lar appreciation a singer, who has begged hum- 
bly at other doors without even the murmur of 
a responsive welcome. 

It is worthy of remark in this connection, 
that the press of F. Tennyson Neely has ever 
been inclined to extend a welcoming hand to 
young poets, struggling to make/ themselves 
heard above the din of modern materiab'"' \ 

Within the past three years, at ne 



xii Introduction. 

hundred volumes of poetry by hitherto un- 
knows authors have appeared with Mr. Neely's 
imprint, many of which contain as artistic lines 
as may be found in the whole realm of litera- 
ture. 

Miss Minnie Gilmore, the inspired daughter 
of the famous bandmaster and composer, P, 
S. Gilmore, who was celebrated in the musical 
world of two continents, and to whose memory 
the daughter's book of poems, "Songs from 
the Wings," is dedicated, has struck immortal 
notes in many of her verses. 

Where is a woman's love more powerfully 
portrayed than in these measures from "A 
Living Picture"? 

"Such is the love of woman; single, yet vast 
in groove 

Knowing beyond it, nothing: — nothing be- 
low, above: — 

Heaven, and earth, and Hades, all, in her 
human love!" 

Here is an exquisite estimate of the actor's 
P^ovjif^^ from "Nature's Mirror," by the same 
auti on it hi 



Introduction. xiii 

' 'Mirror of Nature!' Thus 
Triumphs his genius. 
His, to reject mankind. 
Spirit, and heart, and mind; — 
Doing its good and ill 
Loving and hating well; — 
Even as mortals will, 
Serving both heaven and hell!" 



M. Louisa Palmier Myers, a brilliant 
woman of high social distinction and unusual 
culture, we find a poet of quite a different 
trend. 

Her delightfully charming "An Idyl of the 
Rhine," is the story of "Love's first young 
Dream," and is understood to have been written 
for her beautiful and accomplished daughter, 
Mrs. H. E. Wagoner, a social favorite of St. 
Louis. 

The style of this melodious work suggests ir- 
resistibly some of the fine passages in "Lu- 
cile." 

There is a rare touch of the eternal feminine 
in these lines from her book, included under the 
title "The Flirtation" : 



xiv Introduction. 

*'The difference one may plainly see 
' 'Twixt zvorshiping a friend or me; 

For women rarely fail to Und 

Excuses for a lover kind; 

Each deems the passion she inspires 

A holy flame of pure desires, 

Yet thinks it duty to repress 

'A sister's show of tenderness'* 

Henry McD. Flecher, the Texas poet, con- 
ceived some wonderfully brilliant pictures that 
have all the vividness of a painting, in his 
"Odin's Last Hour." 

His work has received the most flattering 
recognition among the public and the critics 
alike. 

There is space to quote but one short extract. 

''High o'er the heavens, which seemed one 

spotless sun, 
Wild wayward splendors, million-colored 

run; 
'And strangely glorious beings, faintly seen. 
Appeared at times beyond the dazzling sheen 
Now half revealed, and now withdrawn from 

sight. 
To some high city of excessive light." 



Introduction. xv 

"A Bird in Lincoln's Tomb" is the title of a 
little volume by Emily Thacher Bennett, that 
teems with lyrics and pastorals of the sweetest. 

These lines are from the poem, "Lilies of the 

Valley" : 

''Fragrant, fluted, waxen bells 

Drooping on their stem; 
Honey in their secret cells — 

Jesus cares for them. 
''Bells just large enough to ring 

Little dews from dreams; 
Who it is that pulls the string/ 

Ask the meadow streams/' 

Josephine L. Roberts, in the "The Rose of 
Joy," demonstrates what a world of poetry lies 
in the cadences of blank verse when handled 
by an artist. The following passage will 
suffice to show her skill : 

"The blithesome summer hurried on apace 
Where spring has gone. The daisies snowy- 
edged 
Gleamed in the wide space of the meadow- 
land; 



xvi Introduction. 

The ivild rose nestled on its leafy couch. 
Its petals scattered by the lightest breeze 
Until one day the hot midsummer sun 
Contracted its rays and made the earth 
Its focus," 



Among the powerful poets that have found 
fame under the aegis of Mr. Neely, is Colonel 
John A. Joyce, whose recent work on Edgar 
Allan Poe has attracted so much attention. 

Colonel Joyce's verses have the knack of 
impressing themselves indelibly upon the mind, 
not only because of the melody of their flow, 
but the unforgettable tenderness of the emo- 
tions they inspire. 

The following lines are among his favorite 
ones: 



''And she was fair, 
With dark brown hair — 

Her voice rang out upon the air 
Like vesper bells 
In convent cells 

When Love its holy music tells. 



Introduction xvii 

'^She said, 'Some day, 

We'll sail away, 
O'er hounding hillozus fringed with spray, 

And for awhile 

We'll bask and smile, 
Within some sweet, enchanted isle.' " 

Poetry applied for the purpose of intensify- 
ing the humor of a subject, facetious in itself, 
is put to admirable use in the verses of W. 
Meredith Underbill : 

''Perhaps it were better. 
The Muse to embrace. 
Than the dear little maiden 
In chiffon and lace." 

This is good perhaps, but the author did not 
abide by it, for: 

"I stop for a moment 
My brain in a whirl 
And spend a half-hour 
Embracing the girl" 

In Cleland Kernestaffe we find a poet, who in 
his volume, "Pebbles and Pearls," displays a 



xviii Introduction. 

most bewildering versatility of theme. His 
collection embraces poems serious and humor- 
ous, tender and coy, poems of sunny meadows 
and singing birds and again verses of unutter- 
able sadness, but above all lyrics that tremble 
with passion, half suppressed, half avowed. 

The following, from the poem ^'Rosebud and 
Rose" is in his most charming, humorous vein : 

'' The mother is 'fair, fat and forty/ 
A widow — fast — fickle and fond.; 
The daughter, too young to be haughty. 
Is a dear little, Hax en-haired blonde; 
'Tis hard to decide (zmthout taking advice) 
For one is so naughty, the other so nice. 

May Howell Beecher, in 'Trespassing, and 
Other Verses," has collected a delightfully re- 
freshing string of poems, that breathes the very 
balm of the new spring tide. Some, indeed, 
are in a minor key, and we quote from '^Little 
Old Shoes": 

"Little old shoes all battered and worn 
I remember them nezv and a-shine 
As here and there they pattered about 
On that wee little son of mine.'* 



Introduction. xlx 

Radiant bits of harmony and light issue 
from the poems of Florence Danforth New- 
comb, collected under the title, 'The Carnival 
of Venice." The selection which follows has 
been widely quoted : 

"The hrown-eyed flower girl's envying 'gaze 

Is on the lady fair, 
So lovely is the shoulder white, 
On which the jewels break in light, 

So golden is her hair. 

"She wears no mask upon her face, 

In dancing takes no part; 
But dream you in your envy, girl, 
That she with rare and radiant curl 

Wears closely masked her heart?" 

That delightfully charming, brilliant and 
beautiful member of society, Miss Maude 
!A. Irving, achieved a notable triumph with her 
book of verses, "Idle Thoughts of an Idle 
Girl," brought out by Mr. Neely; and Mrs. 
Katherine Berry di Zereza is to appear shortly 
with a new book of poems. 

This hasty and meager review of what the 



XX Introduction. 

publisher has done in encouragement of the 
poetic Muse would be incomplete without the 
mention of James Whitcomb Riley, incompar- 
able and immortal, some of whose work has 
appeared with the Neely imprint. 

JOSEPH TYLER BUTTS. 



PETERSON'S POEMS. 



Cbe RoDcn 

Whoe'er hath viewed love in its dawn, 
Waking the midnight into morn; 
Or into wakefulness that weeps 
The beauty that so gently sleeps 
Far from the heart that fain would rest 
Its anguish in a woman's breast — 
Whoe'er hath seen love's sad decline 
Upon a life that knew no sin, 
Yet, hardened by its first despair 
Soon found that sin was everywhere, 
And loosening to its maddening turn 
Became a portion of its ruin — 
Whoe'er hath seen the careless stare 
Of wasted youth, and sorrow's heir, 
And reckoned that in childhood's strife 



34 Peterson's Poems. 

An early grief had poisoned life, 
And 'prisoned hope within the cell 
That made youth hate — and life a Hell — 
Whoe'er hath known one tempest tossed 
From sea to sea, yet never lost — 
Now battling with the torrid gale. 
Now boasting by a shivered sail, 
Whose passion struggling for relief 
Had burst the fountain of his grief — 
Whoe'er hath witnessed such a dream 
Hath known the hero of my theme. 



October's sun was bending o'er 
The evening hills as ne'er before. 
The pictured sky was fading fast 
Its silver in a deeper cast, 
And to his glorious golden tent 
The orb of day his journey bent. 



II 



Save where on yonder meadowed place, 
Beside the brook's wild-running race, 



The Rovef. 35 

Enrapt in beauty's blindest dream, 
Two youthful lovers may have been, 
The fields were empty, sage and bare, 
And Nature smiled without a care. 



Ill 



The lovers start, and by the brake 

That shelters 'round the placid lake. 

They wend their way through fern and fall 

Until they reach a mansion hall 

Of splendid court, and ancient grace 

Which gave a reverence to the place : 

And both were fair and both were young, 

And Ethel was the maiden's name 

From noble lineage both had sprung. 

And Alan was the youth's name; 

And he had chosen her his bride. 

And she but loved' him as a friend — 

Their love, however near allied, 

Should not in matrimony end. 

lY 

And now they halt, and he beside 
The maiden who should be his bride 



36 Peterson^s PoeiriS. 

In two short years, and gave the kiss 
Which fain would seal their happiness, 
And now they part, and now the lad 
Is passing through the evening's shade, 
Leaving the tender lass behind 
To view, alone, the day's decline. 



Two years passed by, and in those years 

Changes had darkened o'er the cares 

Of that proud youth who knew no fears; 

A father's hall, a father's smile 

Now bade no welcome to his child, 

And Ethel's heart was cold to him. 

He saw his hopes before him swim 

His eyes looked on, grew faint and dim. 

What was there now to cheer his heart 

When all most dear seemed to depart, 

When friends, once warm, now seemed so cold, 

And pastures green had grown so old? 

Twas more than his full heart could hold ! 

VI 

We find him on a bitter nighf 
Sitting alone by his firelight. 



The Rover. 37 

Dreaming o'er the past's decay 

That, once, had seemed so bright and gay, 

Now withered to a wintry lay. 

VII 

"Old halls," said he, ''to-morrow's night 
Will find your master far from here ; 
The stars shall be his lonely light, 
And guide his soul — he cares not where! 
The ocean wave shall bear him on, 
The storm shall be his dwelling-place. 
For, soon, he from thee must be gone. 
He cannot love his native race! 
Old halls, he loaths to leave you so. 
For memories haunt thy silent ways. 
But fate is fate and woe is woe, 
1 He leaves! this debt to grief he pays!" 

VIII 

And now the morning light is seen 
To glimmer o'er the Eastern green, 
And shiver with its silver beam 
And break with its unbroken stream 
The last receding rays of gloom 
That hang about his haunted room. 



38 Petersoii'o Poems. 

IX 

The sad youth starts, he looks without 
His window to the fields about ; 
He views the hills his childhood tried 
In climbing their most treacherous side. 
And gazes on the dancing stream — 
The spot where many a childish dream 
Had brought delight into his eye — 
And fancied how he once would try 
His strength against its rushing tide 
'Till he would gain the other side. 
He viewed the random cattle graze 
Upon the waving fields of maize, 
Their muffled bells all bright with dew, 
Ringing until their tinklings drew 
The balance of the herd in view. 



X 



Now toward a distant grove he turns : 
Ethel before his mind returns. 
Said he, "That grove in v/hich you live 
Shall bend in age e'er I survive 
The errors of thy virgin breast 
That will not give my spirit rest : 



The Rover. 

And I shall but remember thee 
As one sweet thought to brighten me, 
When I am tossed from sea to sea!" 
He paused; a voice sounds at his gate! 
"My sir ! your pleasure we await, 
The carriages are here, my sir ! 
The road is rough ; the journey far ; 
Your ship is anchored in the bay : 
Suppose we start, sir, right away !" 



XI 



Two years had passed, and in those years, 
Changes had darkened o'er the cares 
Of that proud youth who knew no fears. 
Changes not slight, for en his brow 
Were written all the pangs of woe : 
No smiles were seen upon his face, 
But Melancholy took their place — 
He could not love his native race. 
His eyes were filled with fancy, too; 
His cheek assumed a paler hue : 
His voice was not so bold as when 
He strolled across the meadow green. 






40 Peterson's Poems. 

Those years had been a life to him — 
All mixed with maddest mirth and whim, 
All checkered from without; within 
All tainted with the taint of sin; 
Misspent in thwarted dreams, until 
Life seemed to him too full to fill ; 
He had no hope, he knew no fear, 
He scorned a smile, and scoffed a tear : 
With the whole world he was at war. 
He hated everything he saw. 
And since he'd left his native land 
He'd trod the shores of many a strand. 
And trifled many a virgin's hand. 
He seemed to long to rove, to rove ; 
The ocean was his only love — 
On its free plains he loved to stay, 
In its billow he loved to play — 
Nor did he reck' his desert home — 
His dwelling-place was on the foam, 
And on it he was wont to roam. 



XII 

We see him on a Spanish craft 
Flying before the wind like chaff. 



The Rover. 41 

Careless whither the wind should waft. 
He is in the South seas; on flies 
His vessel to the Southern skies, 
Tossing the spray from off its prow, 
Plowing the billow with its plow, 
Leaving a seething wake behind, 
Followed by monsters of the slime, 
Glassing the blue dip of the wave. 
Braving the whistling gale so brave; 
Riding the mountains of the sea. 
Sweeping the gullies in its glee — 
So bold, so proud, so strong, so free. 



xni 

How goes it, seaman ! on the mast 
When loudly blows the breaking blast? 
Do not the dangers breed alarm, 
Or do no terrors ride the storm, 
When all the waters seem to boil, 
And by the pumps the sailors toil; 
When hoarsely sounds the breakers' roar, 
And floods of liquid o'er you flow ? 
How is it, sea-boy ! when the hiss 
Of waters come from the abyss — 



42 Peterson's Poems. 

Settling, now, your wandering bed. 

And showing nothing in its stead, 

Save the wild waters of the deep 

And the gray skies that o'er them weep— 

And the surge, 'neath which you must sleep? 

XIV 



On — on the vessel flies. Tis night 
Lighting all with its living light. 
Alan is on the starboard deck. 
Watching a dainty, distant speck 
Sailing on the dark blue waters. 
''We've company ! there are others 
In this beautiful Southern clime," 
Said he, ''chasing over the brine!" 
He hails the vessel,, but it flees 
Before the evening's freshening breeze, 
And dies far in the distant seas. 

■ XVi 



The hours pass on. 'Tis midnight's hour- 
The moon has left her torrid tower, 



The Rover. 43 

The stars have hid their steady gaze 
Behind the upper kingdom's haze, 
And all is dark, save on the poop 
The lantern swings upon its rope — 
As it were the last beam of hope. 



THE BUOY-BELL SONG. 



To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 

The waves are rolling, 

My voice is tolling 

For the sailor-boy, 

Tossing like a toy 

On the wild, fierce, wave > 
That shall be his grave ; 
To-night — to-night, while all is bright, ) 



To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 
I sing of others, 
Deep in the waters. 
Resting from life's chill, ^ 



44 Peterson's Poems. 

Where the tides are still; 
They have gone to rest 
In the Ocean's breast, 
To-night — to-night, while all is bright. 



To-night — to-night, while all is bright, 
There's a distant home 
Where one shall ne'er roam ; 
There are children's lips 
In prayer, ah ! perhaps, 
And the fire-light burns 
For who ne'er returns ; 

To-night — to-night, while all is bright. 



XVI 

While thus the youth his song outpoured, 
A storm was brooding from the west, 
And now about his craft it roared. 
And flung his ship from crest to crest. 
The sea so calm an hour before 
Seemed e'en to Heaven its wrath to pour 



The Rover. 45 

Charged thunder shook the furious night. 
And lightning Ht the awful sight, ] 

And showed the youth his hideous plight. 
Morn with her mists is seen to dawn — 
But such a morn — but such a morn ! 
No sun is rising from the east, 
No beam is dancing o'er the yeast, 
No waking hail is heard to come 
From out the sailor's scanty room, 
No seamen rise from peaceful sleep. 
But darkness reigns upon the deep, 
Lit only by the lightning's leap. 



XVII 



All day the storm burst on the bark. 
All day the sky was drear and dark. 
At eve the pumps were heard to creak — 
The stricken craft had sprung a leak : 
And fast the waters filled the hole — 
Their fury, now, seemed double fold. 
The sailors' hopes had died away, 
Some ceased to care, some seemed to pray — 
And one, alone, now watched the spray. 



46 Peterson's Poems. 



XVIII 

That night, beneath the silent wave, 
A vessel rested from its toil ; 
That night, ah ! many found a grave 
Where no winds fail — or waters boil. 
The ship, at eve, had sunk to rest 
Beneath the billows' angered breast, 
And all the terrors of its doom 
Were buried in a night of gloom, 
And, now, all quiet was the scene — 
The Ocean's breast was calm again. 



XIX 

It happened that — when just before 
The vessel plunged beneath the roar 
That swept the main-deck o'er and o'er, 
And dragged the struggling crew below, 
Young Alan saw a broken mast 
Drifting beside him; and he knew 
Full well the vessel could not last — 



The Rover. 47 

And that the hopes for life were few; 
He stood a moment, then he dashed 
His body in the tide and lashed 
It to the broken mast he clasped. 



XX 

Whatever should have been the fate 
That cast his body in the tide, 
Had it but turned a moment late, 
He must have perished by the side 
Of those who lingered on the craft, 
And sunk beneath the waves as chaff ; 
For just as he had left the ship 
Its starboard bow began to dip. 
And, in a moment, all the crew, 
Save him had perished 'neath the blue. 

XXI 

All night he drifted ; and all night 
He battled with the wind and tide, , 
When morning broke, land was in sight- 
An island to the left he spied. 



48 Peterson's Poems. 

Soon reaching the deserted strand 
The youth dimbed up its beach of sand, 
'Til sheltered by the forest deep 
He laid his wearied form in sleep — 
His dark hair flowing in the breeze, 
His limbs outstretched in graceful ease. 

XXII 

And thus I found this truant lad 

Upon the lonely Southern isle ; 

When I awaked him he seemed glad — 

His pale face lit up with a smile. 

But, soon, that face grew calm and sad, 

•And he outpoured his heart to me. 

His journeys over land and sea. 

His wild adventures on the deep. 

His night of toil, his restful sleep. 

XXIII 

I told him how I chanced to find, 
Upon the shore, his wasted form; 
That his lot was akin to mine, 
That I had been saved from the storm; 



The Rover. 49 

And that my ship had failed to brave 
The torture of the lawless wave, 
But clinging to a broken mast 
That I had gained the shore at last. 



XXIV 



'Twas three months after when a sail, 
In seeking shelter from a gale, 
Had anchored in the quiet bay 
Which, by the fertile island, lay. 
I hailed the ship and gained her side, 
But Alan would not go with me, 
"For he, at present, would abide 
On the lone isle, alone," said he; 
"For he had learned to love the place 
More strongly than his native race, 
And 'neath its unfrequented shade 
A habitation he had made ;" 
But, just before I left the youth, 
I saw strange fire flush from his cheek; 



50. Peterson's Poems. 

"Stranger," said he, "you know the truth, 
Of my strange fate to Ethel speak." 
My eyes grow weak, my tale is done. 
The image of my dream is gone. 



XXVi 



My sister ! as I close this theme, 
Thy name presents itself to me: 
Whate'er has been my youthful dream 
Whate'er my life to others seem — 
It is not as I'd have it be. 
Swift years have passed since when I knelt 
Before thy childish form and felt 
Thy mother's breath in thee survive — 
That urged me for thine own sake live. 
Swift and yet slow those years have passed 
Since when I viewed thy features last. 
And, now, I feel as though in vain 
I longed to see thy face again. 
And look into the same sweet smile 
That knew thee when a thoughtless child. 
But, Mary, whate'er has been given 



The Rover. 51 

To cheer this lonely life I lead, 
Whate'er has soothed my heart, now riven. 
Where'er my fainting soul has striven, 
Or where, all blighted, it would bleed. 
My hopes to some day bless thy life. 
And keep my mother's child from grief, 
Have been the uppermost — indeed. 
And although all such hopes are past. 
The wish which wished them was sincere ! 
While 'bout me howls the torrid blast, 
And o'er me sighs my storm-swept mast, 
My eye, for once, must shed a tear ! 
My heart must break ! — at last — at last ! 



52 Peterson's Poems, 



Reflections. 

I 

At times the silent leaves will wet the eye 
And fill the heart, and shade the sullen brow; 
At times the blaze of Autumn's evening sky 
Swells deep into the heart — we know not how ; 
At times the Ocean from the ship's proud bow 
Will send a pensive anguish to the mind, 
iWhich sears the thoughts that pain cannot 

allow 
To rule the wreck that rules a human kind, 
And tears divinity from what would be divine. 

II 

At times the grave is rest; and grace and a 

stare, 
When, brooding as a specter o'er the heart, 
Dark Melancholy sits — and ponders there. 
And tears from us that peace it would impart; 



Reflections. 53 

And leave us listless in life's lingering dart 
To doubt the dream which feigned would let 

us live 
Upon a sphere where naught but dreams can 

start 
Forgetfulness for what we can believe, 
Forgiveness for favorites we cannot forgive. 

Ill 

At times a stranger comes into the mind 
With saddened tales which echo from the past, 
And scatters tears when nothing we can find — 
But woe that shows the future as 'tis cast: 
'Tis then we say to sorrow,— ''Will it last, 
Or will you leave me on to-morrow's morn, 
That I may meditate life's dull repast, 
And not still hate the day that I was born, 
And make mildew of rain, and midnight out of 
morn?" 

IV 

What profit can a son of fortune gain^ 
When all his youth with madness is beset; 
What honor is there in the crowd's disdain — 
Or where is peace when life is but a fret?^ 



54 Peterson's Poems. 

Why are our spirits linked with past regret 
Which keeps us batthng 'gainst a wretched 

heart, 
Which, as a mansion, bare and desolate, 
Abandoned, sacked and sad, can but revert 
Its ruin into each relic which relief would start ? 



V. 



What pleasure is there in a father's frown — 
Imbedded in each look upon his child, 
Envenomed with remorseless hates around 
The fireside it spent a pleasant while 
In infancy — beneath a mother's smile? 
How can one thank the portion of his youth 
For that which poisoned birth as a reptile, 
And nestled existence far more uncouth, 
And cradled childhood's felicity in untruth? 

VI 

And kindred's scorn ! as though I spurned the 
trash 

Of those who claim my blood — and yet dis- 
claim — 

T leave to them but nine short lines and smash 

The picture as a blot upon my name! 



Reflections. 55 

Stepmothers; red-haired fiends who love to 

live; 
Uncles; aunts; false cousins — who eat for 

fame — 
And all the balance wlio may now survive, 
To teach the devil lies, and harlots to deceive! 



VII 



At times no welcome speaks from the debris 
Of ancient castle or benighted site; 
At times the ruins which moulder in decay 
Touch not the exile lingering by their fright; 
At times the haunted places mock our sight 
And show no spirits but belie the mind, 
As, by each pile, new mysteries alight 
To hide the feelings which we fear to find, — 
Not bitter, yet not sweet, not cold, and yet un- 
kind! 

VIII 

At times we do not love the threatening tide 
Which sweeps upon Cabana's silvery plain; 
And, oft, the heart grows sick, and turns aside 
From strange Niagara-thundering in her rain ; 



56 Peterson's Poems. 

At times the earth's a myth, and life a bane ; 
And Nature often loses all her charms 
Save of, perhaps, upon the watery main, 
Where, sobbing as an infant in her arms. 
We hide our care in waves, and gulf our grief 
in storms. 

IX 

I am a rover on the wide, wide sea! 
No cares have I, save those I leave behind! 
No curses levy when the wine flows free 
On the proud ship which bears me on the brine 1 
Why should I reck the woes of humankind — 
That gave my youth to torture and disdain, 
While gazing on the Ocean's endless mine, 
Or walking lone beside its noiseless plain — 
Or wrestling with its flow, or frightening in its 
rain ? 

X 

My hammock swings above the bold fore-deck. 
And that's my home ; a place without a care — 
And there I dream whene'er my dreams elect 
Of far off lands, while tangling my dark hair. 
The breezes come, and whisper sweet songs 
there f 



Reflections. 57 

All day, all night, I mingle with the mists 

Which proclaim freedom's voice from every- 
where, 

And have communion with the Earth's mis- 
tress. 

Riding in her awful chariot of distress. 



XI 



I have no sorrows that I do not choose ! — 
For what is sorrow but a paltry sting? 
I hate not man, for nothing can I lose 
By loving not, yet loving everything! 
And when my goodly ship to port shall bring 
Her cargo from the far off southern isles. 
The banquet halls are lit, fair women sing. 
The aged wine fills revelry with smiles. 
And merry laughter lights the lamp which love 
beguiles ! 

XII 

What care I for the never changing tale 
That still resounds from often misspent days; 
What care I for the dull, protracted wail 
Which comes from life whose mandate none 
obeys 



58 Peterson's Poems. 

While peace, awhile, within my spirit stays? 
And why should I regret the things that be 
Or curse mankind for what no curse allays. 
While tossing high upon a friendly sea. 
Or dwelling on a shore untaught to strange 
beauty ? 

XIII 

An exile shall I be ; a wanderer 
Into the wilds of Nature — to there view 
Places not yet defiled by man's leveler — 
For man's leveler is man ; to imbue 
The soul with purity, seek not the pew 
Nor the parson ; nor the pulpit ; but seek 
The wildest wilds where Nature's pale azure 
Shows the Almighty's form in every freak 
You find implanted in each fadeless hue 
Of star and sky ; of wood and wild ; of drouth 
and dew! 

XIV 

The Night shall be my mistress ; and tfie breeze 
My swift enchantress; yon sail my delight; 
My port the spot where'er my vessel flees ; 
The stars that shine upon the sea at night 



Reflections. 59 

Shall be my watchlight from their heavenly 

height ! 
Thrice welcome to my craft! ye pouting gale 
Spending your lightning as an angel's flight ! 
Your storm shall be my passion and my tale, 
Your waves my wildest joy, your deep, per- 
haps, my wail ! 

XVi 

I am a rover 

Wandering over 
The blue of the deep Atlantic! 

Yon deep's heedless speed, 

Naught does my heart heed. 
E'en though its billows be frantic! 

XVI 

I care not how swift 

Yon currents shall shift 
On the broad wastes of their waters ; 

Nor do I regret 

That my sail is set 
Far from the land of my fathers. 



60 Peterson's Poems. 

XVII 

O how I love you 
My sweet daisy blue 

That walks alone on the ocean, 
And, in thy strange form. 
Survives the dark storm 

That sets thy sea in commotion ! 

XVIII 

And what do I care 

When the masts are bare 
Or rigged for the gale's loud wailing; 

And what gives alarm 

In the sullen calm 
While on thy breast I am sailing? 

XIX 

I hate not my kin 
Who bark at my sin 

As I toss on the heedless waves, 
I sail on and on 
As the worms are born, 

And as they sink in tearless graves! 



Reflections. 6l 

XX 

I roam all the day 

On the frightful spray 
.Which bathes my face in its dashing, 

Or drift with the tide 

Which runs by my side 
And meets the waves in their splashing! 

XXI 

And when day is done 

And hid is the sun 
My vessel plies on as ever, 

Forgetting the scene 

Night's mantle would screen 
'Til it and night pale together. 

XXII 

When the Spring's first bloom 

Wakes Winter's long gloom 
Or clothes the earth with sweet flowers, 

I think of youth's day, 

When by the still bay 
As a child, I spent the swift hours. 



62 Peterson's Poems. 

XXIII 

And when Spring is gone 
And Summer is borri 

To cheer the world with her roses, 
I dream of my youth, 
And curse bitter truth 

For the mock it now discloses. 

XXIV 

When Autumn's clear skies 
Bring tears to my eyes 

And wastes the green on the meadow, 
I view these dull years 
Embittered in fears 

For what was seen ir. their shadow. 

XXV 

And, when with the storm, 

Comes Winter's cold form 
To chill what Autumn has wasted. 

Its dirges recall 

A deserted hall — 
And a life which has been blasted. 



Reflections. 6^ 

XXVI 

Ah! the Western Sun 
To his home has gone 

And swift clouds are sailing over; 

And the day grows dark — 
As a fading spark, 

And has left me yet a rover ! 

XXVII 

Who would not be a rover and despise 
Hypocrisy in all its varied shows? 
Who would forever be the aim of lies, 
And scandals, low as Hell to Heaven bows? 
Who would give battle to ignoble foes, 
List at asses, or humble to a beast. 
Or give to man respect one never owes, 
Or speechless sit while, slowly, vultures feast 
Upon his naked breast? Who would? — to say 
the least! 

XXVIII 

Fly on ! fly on ! my lily sail ! fly on ! 
Amidst this joyous yeast which heaves the tide 
Across thy pathway on this misty morn! 
For on the sea my youthful sports were tried : 



64 Peterson's Poems. 

And, now, when youth is blighted, and when 

lied 
And scoffed at by this herd of human prey, 
Its bosom has not me as much denied 
As those whose envy is as vile as they — 
Therefore bear me onward, and let's forget the 

clay! 

XXIX 

Ye winds ! horn of the Almighty, and voice 
Sweeping from unfathomed chaos! ye winds 
And storms and gales with whom I now re- 
joice, 
That spurnest the lot of man, and that sends 
Him howling before thy tempests, 'til he ends I 
Was spirit to sleep when thou wouldst stir! 
Thou passion of the sky which o'er me bends, 
Can mankind scorn thy paths when thou 

wouldst err — 
Or heap calumny on thine untamed Lucifer ! 

XXX 

Thou art the siren of the Night ! with thee 
Night becomes the theme of thy sweet music — 
The clouds, the air, alas, the earth, the sea 
Doth become thine auditors ! strange, mystic 



Reflections. 65 

Thy wizard notes reverberate fast and thick 
The echoes of a sadness which I feel 
My hfe is cast, w^iich burns my Hfe's lamp- 
wick; 
Hell shouts; all Nature screams, and heavens 

yield 
Their hosts of ills and ails to swell thy loud ap- 
peal. 

XXXI 

My love is fixed on things inanimate, 
Yet animate with me — the wind — the storm ! 
I am not of the flesh with which I'm rate, 
Though human in my fate, though of man's 

form 
I am not of his spirit, and the charm 
Of his existence is not minel Behold 
Yonder ocean thundering its alarm! 
Behold the tempest sailing loud and bold, 
And yon crag sheltering o'er the sea ! Behold ! 

behold! 

XXXII 

Strange reckoner of thy course, of thy speed, 
Which comest from ^olus; in thy gale; 



6S t^etefson's Poems. 

Thy lull ; thy lengthening calm what dost thou 

heed? 
By day; by silent night; by shivered sail, 
Speaking now in thunder, now in a wail! 
Ye winged winds! how fierce thine accents 

flow, 
Or else how fevered in thy false detail, 
Thou whisper of the World ! thou strange echo 
From the mysterious, how can I love you so! 



XXXIII 



Dawn Cometh in his mists, but dawn must fade ! 
And midday in his splendor yields to noon ! 
And noon in her fleet chariot is stayed. 
For Night is softening evening with her 

moon — 
And restless Night must pale to a buffoon, 
Giving the reins of Earth to morn again 
All gray with weird shapes, at times, too soon ! 
But the Wind is unchangeable ! inane 
Is all Nature, Earth, Sea and Man, to Its do- 
main. 



Reflections. 67 

XXXIV 

The seasons are its creatures, and the zones 
Its begotten; the Soul its harp, and man 
Its faint aggressor, and his desert bones 
Its rattler on the role of Time's errand ; 
The hope of all is centered in its hand, 
Shattering now the roof which claims the birth 
Of Kings ; splintering the forest's command, 
And howling o'er the fast forsaken Earth, 
It dwellest, alone, upon its dismembered hearth. 

XXXV 

Hear the war cry of the Elements ! hear 
Their peal from out the armies of the air; 
They're laying low Earth's children far and 

near! 
Hear the minstrelsy of Nature everywhere! 
Watch the thunderbolt rift the dark cloud bare, 
Gaze on the Night ; look at the lightning's leap, 
Forking his tongue from out his muttering 

lair. 
And you will find that man's contemptuous 

creep 
Is but a bubble on the wild Elements' sweep. 



68 Peterson's Poems 

XXXVI 

Reposing on a distant, western isle 

A city slumbered quietly and long, 

While swept from out the Ocean's briny wild 

The dirges of a melancholy song. 

No sign of tempest stirred the merry throng 

Which gathered 'round the festive board that 

night, 
The good ; the evil ; the righteous or the wrong 
Prevailed in each to mingle with the sight 
That waked a stricken land, and hid a morn- 
ing's light. 

XXXVII 

Full many a soul that night had lain the care 

That came from other hearts, to rest in vain, 

Or added to its woes another share 

Of disappointed hopes ; another stain 

Of proud regret to teach the heart disdain: 

Some sweetly slept, some the hot pillow 

pressed 
And found in darkness yet a drearier bane. 
Others reveled — to find in that some rest 
From the monotony of life — that's found the 

bestf 



Reflections. 69 



XXXVIII 

Did they not hear the awful gathering sound 
Which seemed to grasp and hurl the waters on, 
And bury thunderbolts in every mound — • 
And strike from wave to Heaven, groan for 

groan ? 
Did not each echo respond tone for tone? 
Did not their peal recoil, and splash and splash 
Make mirthful mockery of every moan? 
Son, sire, forgotten or unknown, poor trash 
.Which sunk into the gloom, didst thou not hear 

the crash? 

XXXIX 



Heard ye it not! stranger or citizen, 
As, on, the waters rolled into thy shore? 
And sung their sighs as every wave went in 
From watery plain — from out the Ocean's 

roar? 
Which stilled the heart-beats that should throb 

no more 
After the dismal task was done ? Was sleep 



70 Peterson's Poems. 

So peaceful then, or was it as before 
That revelry and Bacchus' cup was sweet, 
Which stunned the maddened cry which her- 
alded at thy feet ! 



xu 



City ! whose laws the minds of man arranged 

To turn nations; to silence every foe 

Who bared his arm! wandering from thy 

changed 
And direful sight, thy children from thee go ! 
And o'er the land a wail is heard to pour 
From stricken victims of that boisterous wave 
Which washes on, serenely in its flow. 
Which sunk thy gardens 'neath its crested lave, 
And stretched thy sons uncoffined in its cav- 

erned grave. 



XLI 



'A few days past beheld thy mart in pride, 
A sharer of the wealth of this fair land. 



Reflections. 71 

But now no vessels linger by thy side, 
Thy sons are swept away as so much sand! 
And now but few are seen upon thy strand! 
Dull man must learn a lesson ere he tries; 
His days are but the turning of a hand, 
What can he do, e'en all his strength should 

rise; 
Poor thing whose hope is but a moment, ere 

it dies. 

XLII 

When we reflect our youth, and, alas, feel 
That things are not what once they feigned to 

seem, 
Our feet would falter and our brains woul reel ; 
The time when hope would shed her brighten- 
ing beam, 
And beauty reign o'er love's triumphant dream, 
Forms a sanctuary of holy thoughts 
Which wake our midnight slumbers, and which 

gleam 
As real visions from our tomb of faults. 
Degrading the victim whom honor's voice ex- 
alts. 



72 Peterson's Poems. 



xLiir 

Youth is the crown of hfe; manhood its thorn; 
Age its derehct; and death its last fire; 
Yet, in a moment, we are come and gone ; 
A crown, a thorn, a derehct ! expire. 
But not before you of the journey tire, 
And we shall call that Death, whether or not 
Our souls are to be burned by heavenly ire, 
Or sleep within a quiet church-yard lot. 
Anything, Lord! anything — just to be forgot. 

XLIV 

I love that mansion which is bowed in age, 
For desolation, as the heart's decline 
Breathes silent beauty from its worn-out cage. 
And mingles thought with Beauty's last repine : 
Such cannot but appeal to every mind! 
The ruined wall; the hoary castle's site: 
The empty niche; the oft forsaken shrine, 
Subdues the eye that views their mournful 

plight, 
Which weeps the grandeur that would speak 

from out their fright. 



Reflections. 73 

XLV 

Behold Carthage! behold what Grace hath done 
To ornament the ruin which moulders there, 
And consecrate what industry begun ! 
Grace dwells amid her ashes of despair 
And hovers where once walked the fairy fair! 
The sunset sky that's pictured in her fate, 
The hectic hue of death which lingers where 
Napoleon shook Egypt's ancient state. 
Sheds grandeur o'er the graves where sleep the 
vanquished great. 

XLVI 

Behold Greece ! — birthplace of all beauty, home 
Of all elegance, and the place where thrived 
The mother of the arts, who cradled Rome ; 
And sacred earth where Thebe and Spartan 

strived — 
Where Homer sung and Alexander lived! 
Greece did not perish with Thermopylae — 
Nor fade when Pindar died ! It has survived, 
And still we muse o'er Sappho's reverie. 
Or Euripides, warring in his ecstacy. 



74 Peterson's Poems. 

XLVIl 

So lives the land where Glory shed a plume, 
Or honor left a fragment of esteem; 
And while we walk by desolated tomb 
Strange thoughts appear, as though within a 

dream. 
And pillage barkens in its breathless scream. 
And while beside the scenes which we survey, 
The heart, reluctant, turns from what is seen, 
Not in sorrow, yet in pity for the clay 
That moulders 'neath the ancient city's obloquy. 

XLVIII 

Who would not live as of the past and be 
Of what has been ; and who would scarcely feel 
A portion of the things that he must see ; 
Who would not fly from earth, nor quite con- 
ceal 
His indifference for its rushing wheel. 
When life is — oh! I cannot tell. 
And hope is rooted in a barren field. 
And peace, alone, is found in a farewell — 
What auR-uish is haunted within this human 
cell! 



Reflections. 75 

XUX 

Fierce wrath that I have kindled 'gainst myself, 
Thou tyrant Woe, that rules my very soul ! 
Strange sorrow, grief, or spirit in me left, 
Or Fortune which would leave the breast so 

cold! 
It is sufficient that I can behold 
My years so young, and yet so sparely spent, 
Indwelling in my ruin as to console 
My mind in ruins far greater in extent, 
And different in their nature and their element. 



It is sufficient that I cannot see 

T'he future doom which waits the one now 

sealed ! 
This empty vase ; this void wherein I be ; 
This haunt of misery thou hast revealed 
Is ample for the present. That concealed 
Whate'er its woe, is welcome to the heart 
Whose desolation, hatred has congealed; 
Fate holds the reins, I care not when they part 
To free a thousand pangs from out a poisoned 

dart! 



76 Peterson's Poems. 



LI 



i 
O Fate ! Devisor of all Destiny ; 

Of that which we can scarcely violate, 

And yet, we murmur at its sanctity 

That made life false, and joy a triumph late ! 

'Curst be the Godhead of remorseless fate, 

Whose edict is the torture, that I see 

Imposed on those who fain would change their 

state 

Victims of its caprice; of its grim glee; 

Or guests to swell the minstrelsy of Hecate. 



LII 



Our natures are untrue to what they seem, 
And what we find in earth is not sincere. 
And life, at best, is but a thwarted dream 
Of what is not, yet what we can but fear. 
The grave seems cold, but what a panacea 
Is death? — the end of nothingness and pain. 
Of rottenness and vice and guilt, whene'er 
It wraps a human in its linkless chain. 
And mixes that with dust, which birth would 
all contain. I 



Reflections. 77 

LIII 

What was this earth for Heaven! — should I 

ask 
What means this dream of an eternity ; 
What means this hard lot of our daily task; 
Those stars which meet the wanderer's weary 

eye; 
That silent moon w4iich sails across the sky ? 
Poor son of man w^ho bow^s before his God! 
How vainly he appeals for a reply, 
How shortly shall another nation trod 
O'er the cold ground where nothing marks 

where he is sod. 

LIV 

And yet, how do w^e struggle in this life, 
And tire of the unequal toil — and taste 
Of all the bitter fruits w^hich fill the brief — 
Mixing each joy with grief in our haste? 
Ere long we give our bodies up a waste; 
Age numbers from the deeds we w^ould essay, 
Not by the fleeting moments we should chase, 
The past must be the stage of every play. 
To-day we linger 'bout the graves of yesterday. 



78 Peterson's Poems. 



LV 



A youth is just from college, and he sees ! 
He sees ! a struggling world before him lies ; 
He feels new vigor from each freshening 

breeze ; 
Manhood is in his step; behold his prize — 
A subdued world — whose power he defies ! 
Ambition's fire is planted in his breast, 
And victory is written in his eyes. 
He launches now his ship, see him depart, 
And sail upon an unknown sea without a chart ! 

LVI 

Whither his course he knows not, nor he cares 
But he must be in motion; on he speeds; 
He founds a land ; or sect ; or tribe ; or bears 
The banners of a host which Earthdom heeds. 
And subjugates, or mows men down as weeds; 
The nations weep to satiate his thirst. 
And bend before him like so many reeds; 
He rides upon the storm his strength has burst. 
And frowns upon his own — cold, merciless, ac- 
curst. 



Reflections. 79 

LVII 

Alas, his destiny has set; alas 

His restlessness is turned to bitter rest : 

Infamy, disgrace, and hatred, alas ! 

Prey on the slow fire of his aching breast. 

No more is splendor on his bosom prest, 

No more is honor with his fate allied. 

He sinks, he sinks, — infamous and unblest, 

With enemies arrayed on every side — 

Alike his Eastern god — he dies unsatisfied. 

Lvni 

And what is Glory? What a mock is fame! 
Are not we dead and thrown in our graves 
Before the world will laudit our true name? 
And glory is a feeling which enslaves 
The restlessness against which genius raves 
Until the cage which binds the soul will break, 
And yield the censure which the spirit craves — 
And gives those charms which other minds for- 
sake, 
And leaves its hero lost, at last, with a heart- 
ache. 



80 Peterson's Poems. 

LIX 

Hard was the fight upon Waterloo's field — 
Stifling the sulphurous smoke which hid its 

blood : 
Brave were the souls who burnished cannon 

wield, 
Fierce the charging steed, and marshalling 

flood— 
And after it, many lain and few stood. 
But who reck'd wretched homes within fair 

France, 
As from the plains surviving hosts were 

mowed ; 
Who reck'd the dangers from an English lance 
,Or shame, when genius 'rose sadly from its 

trance. 

LX 

Napoleon was wearied on the night, 
Which, as a dark-plumed vulture bathed in ink, 
Shed darkness o'er the fields of English right — 
He should have been, if heedlessness can think 
Of retribution for false fancy's drink. 
How! how! could he appease a Mother's 
pain — 



Reflections 81 

La France ! La France ! — his parents' love must 

shrink ! 
Her star must set, it ne'er should rise again. 
Withered by loss of blood which her own son 

would drain. 

LXI 

Some say this life's a battle ! — it is so ! 
No fiercer contest ever waged on High! 
'Tis not with measured strength; with bended 

bow — 
Nor marshalled hosts to make battalions fly ! 
It is not such as armies can defy, 
But one continuous struggle with the mind 
To bear the thoughts which cannot with us 

die, — • 
That casts a gloom we dare not to define, 
Upon a sickened heart and brain convulsed with 

crime. 

LXH 

And life is but an epic, and upon 

Its pilgrimage, subdued, we fain would bear 

Our scanty portion without derision. 

But how can we love what but seems to tear 



82 Peterson's Poems. 

The things most dear from our paltry share ! 
Existence is a heartache ! can I not 
Prove merriment a lie and grace a stare 
Upon this stage of fools; of flesh; this spot 
Where I would walk contented in my lonely 
lot! 

LXIII 

But let not life be filled with discontent! 
All beings suffer some ! why should not I ? 
Whate'er should be my destiny, what bent 
Should bear my spirit onward, should I fly 
The judgment which I dare not to defy? 
Or set my strength against it? I allow 
My soul to yield without another sigh; 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow — 
And ask forgiveness for the faults which I feel 
now. 

LXIV 

I would not deem mankind to be all false; 
Some good remains within this world of care — 
A kind thought throbs with every beating pulse 
A manly action with each minor fear. 



Reflections. 83 

There's recompense for every well-shed tear — 
Bread cast upon the waters shall return 
And bless the giver in a double share. 
And swollen hearts, and aching eyes which burn 
Will find reward which pride or wealth could 
never earn. 

LXV 

There is a Minister to our woes, 
There is a Comforter for our cares ; 
While sorrow o'er the heart its fountain pours, 
Blessings await to wipe away our tears, 
And calm our souls and dispel our fears. 
Who knows for our lot, what should be best 
Save Providence, who lists with open ears 
To every pang which knows the human breast, 
And every frightful dream which will not let 
us rest? 

LXVI 

A sparrow falleth to the ground; 'tis seen! 
Its faint appeal, on high, is heard to voice ! 
Man's nature is so wont on heaven to lean 
That he despairs the wisdom of his choice — 



84 Peterson's Poems. 

And looks up to his God, e'en to rejoice! 
Should he then say what should be or should 

not; 
Poor being of uncertainty and vice! 
But let him gaze upon his lowly lot — 
'Twill be enough to bring disgust upon his rot. 

LXVII 

We are interdependent ; we are things 
Wrapt in each other; that is when we will 
But I have learned to hate man's innate springs. 
Go ask him who has drunk life to its fill, 
Seen all that can move, felt all that can thrill — 
Until his heart has overflown with deeds, 
Until no future waits him to fulfil. 
And youth is stifled by unwholesome weeds — 
And he will tell you why his bosom swells and 
bleeds. 

LXVIII 

Twas in Habana's city that I stood, 
To view the ruins usurped by foreign power. 
And lingered o'er the scenes where maidenhood 
Of Spanish royalty hath built its bower; 



Reflections. 85 

And Baltis doth with every fruit endower, 
While Nature's gardens, fountained haunts, 

festoon 
With vineclad heaths entwined with fairest 

flower ; 
And where the heat of Moloch's fiery zone, 
Makes Summer Autumn's eve, and Spring of 
Winter's noon. 



LXIX 



But what a sadness do her halls present. 
Grim spectacles which haunt your every way — 
The creaking gates where poisoned air gives 

vent, 
And awful sounds which in her dungeons stay! 
"Relics of ancient usage," so they say — 
"That from Sir Francis or his followers 

sprung, 
When prince or pirate sailed into the bay 
And claimed a prison rather than be hung" — 
Infamous creed which through barbarous ages 

rung. 



86 Peterson's Poems. 

LXX 

As I wandered by the dire broken wall 
Which circles with its mass the palace yard, 
Erected to that queen whose name we call 
"While musing o'er the soil Columbus marred 
With civilization; I saw the scarred 
And beaten gates disclosing, on each side, 
The mansion Catharina's spirits guard, 
Which lifts its form against the silvery tide — 
That sweeps from out the waves which by dark 
Morro stride. 

LXXI 

And of this maid no harp hath hither sung, 

No Muse declared the anguish of her share; 

No wreath of ivy by her name is hung, 

No daughters whisper of her dark despair; 

No artist traced her solitary lair! 

A creature whom the crown of monarchs 

crushed, 
Save of her virgin beauty lingering where 
Her breathles? body now is cold and hushed ; 
'Neath the green grave, whereon the tread of 

armies rushed. 



Reflections. 87 



LXXII 

Catharina was of proud origin, 

But her heart was simple and her soul sincere ; 

Her heritage, a mind unscathed by sin; 

Her nature such as though 'twere born to bear 

The inroads of reproach upon the ear. 

Unlike other princesses, before 

Her dignity was marked a line of care ; 

Of calumny; that on her head would pour 

Out its flood of malice from her parental foe. 

Lxxni 

A queen of all, was she, who met her gaze, 

In Madrid's gardens or in Cuban halls ; 

We mourn her death and now her name we 

praise ! 
While standing by Habana's cruel walls, 
A whisper from the past, her name falls 
With such a sweetness on the foreign ear! 
Her fate more strangely every heart appals, 
For royalty was not bred to appear 
A sacrifice upon a princess* funeral bier. 



88 Peterson's Poems. 



LXXIV 

I saw proud Cuba's monuments in age, 
The ivied sculpture of her envied great; 
Relics of those who filled her brightest page. 
'Tis sad to gaze on Cuba's injured state — 
Departed worth, degraded Castile's fate — 
Lifting its weeping face as one walks by 
Cathedral or tomb, palace, or prison gate ; 
Where once all honor looked in beauty's eye, 
And Mothers sung their babes their noontide 
lullaby. 

LXXV 

But Cuba's state has failed; her glory's past; 
And as I stroll beneath the evening shade 
I view her ancient graces falling fast; 
Bowed is her knee before the Saxon blade — 
Her breast is bleeding, yet her fame is made! 
No more the tyrant sways his sceptered throne, 
No more you hear the evening serenade ; 
jHer gayety, at last, is overborne 
And prestige sleeps where Pity now is heard to 
mourn. 



Reflections. 89 



LXXVI 



In childhood's days, beside the sea I roamed. 

At Portersville, or Petti-bois' shore 

And longed its bosom as its waters stormed 

And Mexico ! still do I love thy roar ; 

And still thy waves are wont to bear me o'er; 

Unfolding, now, in thine unvarying deep, 

Thy beauty seems to haunt me more and more ; 

Now freshening in thy rage and maddening 

sweep, 
Thy waves become armies — massing their mar- 
shalled heap. 

LXXVII 

A son had bade remaining friends farev/ell. 

And left the hearth where early youth was 
reared — 

He yearned, for what, his heart could scarcely 
tell. 

And found it not with whom he was en- 
deared — 

He yearned to wander, nor his passions cared 



90 Peterson's Poems. 

Whither his thoughts should lead his wayward 

form — 
No furrows with his classic features shared, 
The careless waters offered him a home, 
And he had early learned to love their playful 

storm. 

LXXVIII 

His sail is set, and flying on the wave, 
His vessel bears him swiftly from the shore. 
Now passing by some monumental grave, 
Or viewing new scenes stealing by him slow — 
He leaves the channel for a louder roar. 
While now a flag is seen to raise on high 
From parapet of ancient fort and flow 
Its parting to the western breezes' sigh, 
The ship sinks into night's cold, dark enameled 
dye. 

LXXIX 

"Airs well !" the Captain shouts, "an'd on tKe 

morn 
A cloudless sun shall rise to give us cheer, 
For as the sun set every cloud was gone! 
And come, my son ! a little wine to cheer 



Reflections. 91 

iYe saddened brow — and wipe away your care 1'* 
The youth now drinks a rather heavy draught, 
'Twas really more than his young brain could 

bear — • 
While onward flies the Captain's sturdy craft, 
And onward bears the wind — God knows where 

it shall waft 1 

LXXX 

And he had loved, and in that love's dim light 
He seemed to see a shadow which forbade 
His soul rejoice at what it would invite; 
That love had waned, and left his spirit sad 
And much perturbed his noble mind, and had 
Bereft him of the spirit of his youth ; 
Midst storm and strife, his soul alone was glad, 
And caprice hid his bitter heart from truth. 
His life grew dark with misery or sin — or 
both. 

LXXXI 

But I must stop ; I started to unfold 

The maddened sway which left this youth in 

ruin ; 
.^vA show how soon his life, in deeds, grew old; 

I \:gu1k] not have the world his lesson learn, 



92 Peterson's Poems. 

Or show how oft it made his own eyes burn; 
Suffice it that he traversed many a shore, 
Suffixce it that, at last, he should return 
And find all dear had faded evermore; 
And left his land again, where should he, 
blighted, go! 

LXXXII 

Reflection is a virtue, yet it shows 

The secrets which we should not care to find; 

It shows the vice, the falsity one knows 

Pervades humanity — whate'er its kind; 

Beauty, chivalry ; the graces which bind 

Life unto life are but as mockeries, 

And purity with Eden's fiowers pined. 

And left no vestige of her levities. 

And sanctity perished with the Corybantes. 

LXXXIII 

The lofty summit of the peak which rears, 
Above a thousand storms, its adamant. 
Heeds no rebuke, and knows no friends or 

fears 
For what it views beneath its element; 



Reflections. 93 

And frowns with scorn from its high firmament 
At that which howls and scoffs beneath its 

place ; 
Magnanimous o'er tempests that are spent 
On its bold brow; about its pallid face— 
Or thunder rolling tumultuously at its base. 

LXXXIV 

The fury of the tempest quells its fright, 
And mountain blasts misspend their strength 

in rage, 
And Calumny is buried in her Night, 
And hate is victim of its own ravage. 
And I have learned to solve life's lowly stage, 
Not hating, and yet shunning all I see, 
I am content to turn from the carnage 
That's bred into the beings who would be 
The substance and the sink of life's epitome. 

LXXXV 

Thrice blessed is the man who can arise 
From poor contempt, and shake his wrath 

away. 
And look with pity on who dare despise ! 
Thrice blessed is he who survives the sway 



94 Peterson's Poems. 

Of foul injustice baffling all his way ! 
The crown of right will conquer every foe, 
The sun of truth will light each cloudy day, 
And Wisdom rises 'midst Hate's deafening 

roar — 
Goddess of all she views, about, above, below. 

LXXXVI 

What majesty pervades the martyr's brow! 
All death itself, and that the direst death 
Shakes not the victim in his darkest hour ; 
While struggling for his fast departing breath 
Glory is weaving him a wondrous wreath; 
The fiercer be the fire which licks his limbs. 
Still surer fame rests 'bout his native heath ! 
Behold him as the scene before him swims — 
A hero e'en to those who reck not of their 
crimes. 

LXXXVII 

And it is morn! my lily sail! fly on! 
Come be my playmate, ye distorted winds — 
And howl ye tempests, for I love thy storm; 
Ye blackened cloud which o'er the ocean bends ! 
Awake thy thunder, and my joy begins : 



fteflectionst. SS 

Awake ! awake ! ye sullen cloud and speak, 
And flash thy fiery tongue to Heaven's ends — 
And voice thy trumpet 'til my mast shall 

creak ; 
No terrors ride the deep when white's the 

wave's high peak. 



LXXXVIII 



Bright isles which shine amid this morning's 

light, 
All robed in tenderest hues of sea and sky, 
Which send such rapture to my journeyed 

flight. 
And gem the waters that few vessels ply. 
And start a sympathy from out mine eye! 
How dare the works of man disturb thy wilds, 
When thou, alone, dost all his strength defy? 
How can the tempests storm thy Southern 

smiles — 
Sweet coraled speck! deserted strand! bright 

isles ! 



96 Peterson's Poeiiis. 

LXXXIX 

Perhaps lies buried 'neath thy marbled crest 
The remnant of a mighty nation's host ; 
Perhaps brave souls within thy caverns rest — 
He's sod the deepest whom man honored 

most — 
Where are they now, and where their pompous 

boast ! 
Perhaps a mighty people thrived in vain 
Upon thy soil, where roams its restless ghost; 
And lived and died and failed and fell for gain, 
Where now the mournful wavelets sweep thy 

proud domain. 

XC 

Perhaps a Caesar, springing from some wrong, 
Trod loud upon the wrecks of thine empires. 
And taught them, that the day cannot be long 
When vice will fall beneath despotic ires; 
And kindled ashes on their funeral pyres ! 
And where lies Csesar in his poor decay — 
Encoffined deep where Rome had felt his fires, 
And all forgetful of his armed array 
He battles lone with dust, for Csesar was but 
clay! 



Reflections. 9? 



XCI 

O for a distant place where I could go 
And hide myself forever from this Earth 
Of bitterness, of solitude, of woe ! 
And leave behind the passions of my birth — 
The passions which subdue my very worth; 
Tossing my shipwrecked body on the wave 
Of discontent, of sorrow, yet of mirth; 
Scorching my brain within its fiery lave — 
And leading my faint footsteps to an early 
grave ! 

XCII 

And passion is a flower which would bloom 
In the bare castle where the heart would stay ! 
What instincts mingle in the unnamed gloom 
Flickering its last fire on life's dim fray? 
Where dwells the feeble watchlight of the day, 
That flower absorbs as does the mistletoe — 
A candle which must die before the play; 
A sustenance which saps — it would be so ! 
Why falls the soul a victim to a friendly foe? 



96 Peterson's Poems. 



XCIII 

When night shows her pale form, passion will 

wake ; 
When she speaks in tempests, passion will burst 
His shattered cage, and flow forth for night's 

sake — 
And mingle with the frantic winds unnursed; 
Battling with the tempests. The head accurst ; 
Revenge; hatred; love and vice; that which 

fails 
Or is formed; spirits in sin immersed: 
All these, and others, with their wastes and 

wails 
Become a part of night, and shriek amid her 

gales. 

XCIV 

At times a silence comes into our souls; 
A silence which would sever every thought 
Save that which o'erpowers us and holds 
Our beings in the trance which grief hath 

brought ; 
And conquers what Omnipotence has taught; 



Reflections. ^9 

That silence will subdue ; it will pollute 

The crystal fountains which have sprung from 

naught, 
And teach our hearts that man is but a brute 
Who writhes beneath the rod— speechless and 

yet not mute. 

xcv 

That silence is the sickness of the soul, 
A fell disease which preys upon the mind ; 
A deathless pang which we should not unfold ; 
Its depth! ah! who would essay to define? 
My God ! what hells are found in our kind ! 
What burning sand will often blind the face, 
What fearful thoughts are read there line by 

line ! 
O that I could forget the human race, 
And dwell alone from what's to me a desert 

place. 

XCVI 

Does remorse ever end ! or as disease 
Which eats into the flesh a separate wound 
For each one healed, does remorse never cease! 
Why does it succumb the soul and rebound 
LofC. 



loo Peterson's Poemg. 

The awful past — where but remorse is found ? 
Or as a dragon with his forked fang 
Why does it poison existence, while 'round 
The heart its tightening coils the meanwhile 

hang, 
Panting with heated breath each fresh en- 
venomed pang? 



XCVII 



weary, wasted, pilgrimage of life ! 

A thought of thee once more — it shall be brief ! 
For I am wont to leave thy scenes of strife, 
And learn of something which gives some re- 
lief; 

1 would not always bow my head in grief ! 
Nothing of thee hath cured my heart its ache. 
No flower springs beneath thy withered leaf, 
Yet I forgive, although my breast shorJ 1 

break — 
I yield, if not for thine, at least, for torture's 
sake! 



Reflections. 101 

XCVIII 

I love to roam deep in the Autumn woods; 
I love the shaded brook which by me sings; 
I love the charms of nature's solitudes, 
I love the breath which from each flower 

springs ; 
I love the home of beasts ; the vine which clings 
To riven oak sharing its sad decline, 
That binds its boughs within its tendril strings, 
Or droops in memory of its sire's repine; 
Or how sweet is the breath of the wild jesa- 

mine! 

XCIX 

I love the fields when they are seared and bare ; 
And often when the sunset leaves the slope 
Which rises from yon stream, it leaves me 

there ; 
For when I meet with beauty I must stop ! 
I love the gale, when all has fled but hope ; 
For in the gale a cheer comes from afar, 
Speaking of things which might be or be not! 
I love the twilight of the evening star; 
Reigning in his lonely ray o'er high Matajar. 



102 Peterson's Poems. 



I love antiquity and its domain ; 

The voiceless ministers of Time; and why? 

They do not only elevate the mind 

And cultivate its visionary eye, 

But turn us to where Earth's most noble lie; 

The barbarian and his lot ; and those times 

When Honor's son was seen to win or die! 

That age of doubt when virtue knew no 
crimes — 

Which kindled the torchlight on martyrs' swol- 
len limbs. 

CI 

A fit spot is Huelva in decay 
To yet preserve where, first, Columbus sailed ; 
Mingling its sacred ashes with the bay 
Which beats the shore where Glory hath 

availed ! 
Andalusia! thy wealth's gone; thy pomp hath 

failed, 
And yet, upon thy once frequented plains — 
Now desolate to all, save who prevailed 
To love that soil which others would profane, 
I cannot silent go, nor shun thee with disdain I 



Reflections. 103 



CII 



Thy grace hath sources where but grace can 

thrive, 
It mingles not its beauty with the fair ; 
Thy charms would shun the spot where others 

strive, 
And hide thy graces in thy grim despair; 
By thy soft vales ; or by thy mountain lair 
Still, grandeur lifts its purple-haunted peak, 
Bewildering the stranger's lingering stare. 
While all thy plains the blood of heroes speak, 
Where battle burnished tears on hatred's mar- 
bled cheek. 



cm 



And thou sweet river! silent in thy flow, 
That freshens Palos with exotic breath. 
And plied by naught save mystics as they go 
With lateen sails from greenly covered heath 
Which shades thy waters as they pass beneath ! 



104 Peterson's Poems. 

Thy marts are gone, and on yon trackless 

strand 
Sinks in decay thy people and thy wealth; 
And none but pilgrims, such as now I stand, 
Tread where once festivity plucked her first 

riband. 

CIV 

Odiel! mighty instrument of Time! 

So changeless and unnoticed in thy sway — 

With woods and skies deep-pictured in thy 

slime. 
And, ah ! a fairy face, too, in thy bay ; 
I see a careless form that's far away, 
Mirrored as though within thy fadeless glass, 
It is a young face ! let me catch one ray 
That burns sad visions in my mind, alas. 
And hides my heedless heart in thy unheeding 

mass! 

CV 

O that her image were of granite stone, 
That I might find a substance for the mind ; 
And hiding her within my heart, alone 
Would dwell with that my eye could ever find — 



Reflections. 1C5 

And live with what is real ; or else repine 
Beside the features thou wouldst so derange 
To flitting shadows of a torturing kind, 
Which come and go; which sadden and 

estrange 
My being into fancy's fault, and frenzy's 

change. 



CVI 



The day grows dark — the sun his downward 

course 
Is yielding, now, his red unto the west ; 
And as night nears, the wind becomes more 

hoarse. 
The clouds are flying by yon mountain crest; 
The sea is dark, and by its swollen breast 
I wander lone, as oft I have before; 
My mind is in a fever ; I must rest ! 
Alas! what is this life which we adore? 
What is this flame which burns my breast 

where'er I go ? 



106 Peterson*s Poems. 

(5VTL 

A gale is on ! Dark-heaving in its mass 
The Ocean shrieks ; the heavens burst ; the rain 
Descends in rivulets on the morass ; 
Yon forest screams; all Nature sighs in vain; 
The waters become mountains, and would fain 
Surmount their awful summits as they go 
From hill to hill upon the watery plain ; 
While lightning plays about their crested roar, 
And licks his forked tongue within their fiery 
flow. 

CVIII 

But hark! a wail is heard from out the wild. 
And I must end this tale ! as though enraged 
The waters seem to speak; and now revile 
Who stands beside their beauty still engaged! 
My soul is too full ! it must be encaged ; 
My task is done, and I would leave who here 
Would view a young heart blighted, seared and 

aged; 
Perchance its story shall induce a tear, 
Or teach to other hearts part of its grief to bear, i 



When Sorrow Sits. 107 



Wbeti Sorrow Sits. 

I 

When sorrow sits to chill the heart, 
And sweeps its sadness o'er the mind; 
When pensive anguish saith : "Thou art 
But human in thy breed and kind !" 
'Tis then we turn from life's fray, 
And wander by the Ocean's side, 
And marvel why we love the play 
Which starts the tears we cannot hide. 



II 



Full oft upon the mountain crag 
I view the struggling mass beneath. 
And when the haze of Night will drag 
Her mantle o'er the purpled heath ; 



108 Peterson's Poems. 

And shroud the Earth in her black lake 
And leaves me in the lonely wood, 
I feel as though my heart would break- 
And yet I know not why it should. 



Ill 



And when I view the wild, gay brook 
That sings its freedom by my side, 
And often see strange faces look 
From out the current's foaming tide; 
Faces with cheerful smiles for all 
Who with rude Nature's tenants dwell- 
I weep, at last, when Night shall fall, 
Yet why, I cannot, cannot tell 

IV 

It is a fever of the mind 
Which makes us sad and desolate; 
It is the hope we left behind. 
Or 'tis the future of our fate ; 
Or 'tis the loneliness we feel; 
Or 'tis the misery we know 
Or restlessness which makes us reel 
Beneath the bondage of our woe! 



When Sorrow Sits. 109 

When sorrow sits to chill the heart 
And sweeps its sadness o'er the mind ; 
When hopes are lost and pleasures part 
From out the lives of human kind ; 
'Tis then we turn from life's dull fray, 
And wander, wander, from unrest, 
And marvel why we love the play 
Which chills the heart and tears the breast. 



110 Peterson's Poems. 



CI)C Speculation. 

I 

Whai I forget an Argus past 
That looms a thousand tortured awes; 
When women lose their charms ; and cast 
My mind upon my creditors; 
When all is empty save the flask 
That sparkles for my midnight gaze 
Then I shall turn to Time and ask— 
"What do I owe thee for my plays ?" 



II 



When I shall, from this dubious sight 
Of empty thieves and vassals turn; 
When life is composed in a night 
Whose starlights cannot cease to burn ; 



The Speculation. Ill 

When I have finished my poor task 
And gone where hate can breed no wrong, 
Then shall I turn to man and ask — 
"How could I stand your rot so long?" 



Ill 



When I shall close these eyes in death, 
And my cold clay is sod unwept; 
And fate shall free this spirit's breath 
From out the form whence life hath swept; 
When kindred throng about my cask 
And place the veil upon my brow. 
Then I shall turn to them and ask — 
"What can your calumny do now?" 



When I shall view that peaceful gleam 
Of Death's unwakening ; and shall know 
That death is but a sleep — a dream — 
Wherefrom but revelry can flow ; 
When Pluto's wine my spirits try. 
And devils dance at my wild strain. 
Then I shall turn to Earth and cry — 
"I would not be with you again" 



112 Peterson's Poems. 



Co matnie. 

I hear a voice within my breast 

Which binds my being in its spell ; 

A voice which bids me say "farewell 

To thoughts of peace or dreams of rest :" 

My spirit hears its pensive tone, 

And says to me, ''Go on ! go on !'* 

Again I leave thee! fairest maid 
That ever waked my heart's desire, 
That ever breathed my spirit's fire, 
That ever' in my fancy stayed ; 
Again thy face shall miss this one, 
A voice has said, ''Go on ! go on !" 

Oft in thy father's halls, when thou 

Would press thy sweet face into mine, 

YouVe asked me what should be the crime 

That made me roam — as I do now ; 

But, 'tis enough that T. alone, 

Should know the bane which says, "Go on!" 



To Mamie. *^3 

In all my paths o'er land and sea, 
From native heath to foreign isle, 
Save she who reared me as a child, 
There' re none whom I have loved as thee; 
Yet, now, my love for thee is gone — 
A voice has said, '*Go on ! go on !" 

If every face could wear thy smile, 
And every heart could be sincere, 
And every hope without its tear, 
This life might be a pleasant while; — 
But, 'tis not so; it cannot be, 
For thou, alone, canst be of thee! 

Life's just the same where'er I go; 

A morsel of hypocrisy, 

Save thou, alone, who could'st not be 

As others of this earthly show ! 

I tire of everything I see 

But thy sweet form, and thy dark eye ! 

Good-by! good-by! my lady love, 
My bark is flying from the shore. 
Perchance I ne'er shall see thee more; 
Yet, howe'er far from thee I rove, 
Still shall my passion sigh for thee, 
For thee — for thee, and only thee! 



114 Peterson's Poems. 

Good-by ! good-by ! across the wave 
The Hghtship, now, is fading fast; 
My sail is higher on the mast, 
The wind is growing loud and brave ! 
Fair one ! farewell ! *tis done, 'tis done ! 
A voice has said, "Go on! go on!'* 

Good-by! my restless spirit screams. 
To all my hopes and joys and fears; 
To all my trials, griefs and cares; 
To all my past, distempered dreams! 
Good-by! where'er their breeze be blown- 
A voice has said, *'Go on ! go on !" 

And let the past rest 'neath some shade — 
The burial-ground of all my woes, 
And let forgiveness shame my foes, 
And bless the curses they have kid; 
For I am on the billows borne — 
A voice has said, "Go on ! go on !" 

"Go on! go on!" and, on I must! 
My soul's as restless as yon tide ! 
A voice is whispering at my side, 
A voice which I am wont to trust ; 
The same which in youth's holy morn 
Proclaimed the strange edict, "Go on !" 



To Mamie. 115 

Farewell, my lady, yet farewell ! 
The night has closed yon western sky ! 
The wild winds shriek their wildest cry, 
And I must close this parting tale! 
Farewell ! for I am from thee borne, 
A voice has said, "Go on ! go on !" 



116 Peterson's Poems. 



Cbe Coue We ne'er Can Know- 

I 

Love has its sphere in every life. 
How rude soe'er the plain ! 
It answers woe, and conquers strife 
When else has proven vain! 

II 

When revelry has lost the charm 
Which long, has cheered the way, 
The queenly calm of woman's form 
Attracts the heart's delay. 



Ill 



When, oft, I but a stranger passed, 
And met her darkened eye, 
'Twould leave the heart estranged, at last, 
And yet, I know not why. 



Love We Ne'er Can Know. 117 



IV, 

'Tis strange that I cannot forget 
The hand I ne'er shall press, 
And love the one I never met — 
With love that cannot rest ! 



AH nature shows her image now, 
Reflected in each sigh 
From out the Ocean's purple brow 
Or Autumn's azure dye! 

VI 

And oft, beside the brook's wild race 
I watch the mirrored stream, 
And view, therein, her ^gyl face — 
That gives to life its dream! 

VII 

Why so should fortune thus divide 
Who ne'er shall meet again, 
And leave me but a hope I hide, 
And wish that gives me pain ? ^ 



118 Peterson's Poems. 



vni 

Why so should passion thus consume 
The fountain it should flow, 
And, self-inflicted, blight the bloom 
Of love we ne'er can know ? 



To Lida. 119 



Co £ida. 

I 

Why am I now so far from thee 
First being of my early love? 
Why do I drift from sea to sea, 
Why do my restless passions rove? 



II 



Why should I brave the cheerless tide? 
Where else could such enjoyment be 
As that which lingers by thy side, 
As that which I have found in thee? 



Ill 



In early youth, each fancy cheered 
My playful spirits with delight. 
Why am I now so cold and seared — 
So withered in untimely blight? 



120 Peterson's Poems. 



IV 



I know not what my fate shall be; 
I care not what my vision sees ! 
Thou hast, at last, forsaken me — 
And no one else could pain or please. 



V 



I know, not how it is with thee — 
For I cannot thy side attend; 
I know this much — you once loved me, 
And now Fm lone — without a friend. 



To Catherine. 121 



Co CatDcrltie. 

If I could only live at ease 
Beside thy beauty; and there stay, 
My life would not be as it is — 
Fair flower of my heart's decay ! 

II 

I once had pleasure in thy smile, 
And rapture in thy childish grace, 
And innocence was mine awhile — 
'Til when thou loved another face ! 

Ill 

My being, once, was rapt in thine 
And naught I cared for revelry; 
My being, now, is rapt in sin 
And maddest spells of gayety! 



122 Peterson's Poems. 



IV 



O how I would my path forsake, 

And dwell with love that points to heaven, 

But ne'er shall I of that partake 

Which to another has been given ! 

V 

And how would I despise the din 
Of midnight's mirth, and wine's poor cheer, 
Could I but live where love has been — 
And be where love was once sincere! 



VI 



For thy sake, fair one ! I depart 
To mourn o'er beauty's strange exile. 
From who was young, yet strong in heart- 
From who was pure but now defiled ! 

VII 

And if upon distant plain 
Of Ocean's wild — I sigh for thee, 
Forgive the heart that sighs in vain 
For what was best but could not be ! 



A Wine Song. 123 



n wine Sons. 

I 

Let's light the spark of life, my friends! 
And cheer our wearied hearts with wine, 
For years are fleet, and pleasure ends, 
Her love is dead, and so is mine. 



II 



Who would not fill the cup with joy 
That hides the heartaches of the past, 
And reckon life as but a toy. 
And say to pain : "Thou canst not last" ? 



Ill 



Forget the watchful past, my friends! 
And grace the sparkling goblet now — 
Fill up the cup with all your sins. 
And Angels soon shall light your brow. 



124 Peterson's Poems. 



IV 



And let us drink the sacred draught 
So mixed with every woe of life, 
And, into our soul's engraft 
The liquid which will drown our grief ! 



V. 



In all this world of care and woe, 
IVe only found a partial bliss; 
And that is when my spirits go 
To drink, or utter listlessness. 



The F^arting, izS 



Cbe Parting. 

I 

Two parted — ^ne'er to meet again 
In this life's fitful fever; 
With her was love, with him was pain, 
With both a sad forever. 



II 



I saw the youth who stood beside 
Castilia's fairest daughter, 
I saw the bark, I saw the tide 
That soon should waft^him from her. 

Ill 

The cold wave swept by Morro's base 
And bathed her pallid fortress ; 
A sadness seemed to spell the place, 
And mingle with their distress. 



126 Peterson's Poemsi. 



IV 



I saw him on the ship's proud bow, 
I saw his dark eye wander 
To haunts more loved than ever now, 
And memories grown fonder. 



I saw his craft fly on the crest 
Foaming white on the Ocean, 
He flung farewell from out his breast ; 
'Twas hushed in the billows' motion. 



VI 



Perchance a woman's fairy hand 
Waved partings o'er the waters ; 
But, then, his craft was far from land 
He could not see where she was. 

VII 

Two parted with a last adieu, 

Their hearts beat swift as ever, 

And both were young, and both were tni< 

And both bled there together. 



Dejection. 121 



Dejection 



O why should I be tossed about 
This winter of my dark despair; 
With pangs within and pains without — 
Is it too much for me to bear ? 
Die, spirit ! die, which in me dwells, 
And Earth's denied her hosts of Hells ! 



II 



iWhy as an exile should I live — 
A target for the aim of lies — 
Df those I hate not nor forgive. 
Of those I stoop not to despise ? 
Away! away! perfidious masses — 
I cannot curse the brays of asses! 



128 Peterson's Poems. 



Ill 



That hand which rules the stars by night, 
And quells the storm that heaves the bay, 
And bears the struggling beam to light. 
That gives to man another day; 
Has so fashioned that Earth should be 
Paradise to who cannot see. 



IV 



For when we see the nothingness; 
The void in which our lives are cast; 
We writhe in our restlessness — 
And wish each breath might be our last. 
And flounder as a sailless craft — 
Careless whither the wind shall waft.— 



Then why should this existence gain 
False praises from who but regrets 
That everything was made in vain, 
And life is but a million frets? 
Friend! choose thou above fame, folly- 
And simpletons to saints — ^by Golly! 



A Toast. 129 



n coast. 

Come cheer my soul, thou aged wine, 
Else I shall at this moment pine! 
And let thy fancies rule my heart- 
El^ peace from out my breast shall part! 
A drink! for God's sake! but a drink 
To stir the withered thoughts I think, 
A toast to her who lives afar 
^Vhose love's my light, my lamp, my star! 

O lady ! lady ! as I sip 
This draught, my spirits dance and skip, 
And mingle their engendered mirth 
^Vith memories of domestic worth; 
With thoughts that border earnestness, 
And scenes of bliss and happiness! 
So, here she goes, my toast is spent— 
Good-night! God save the President! 



I3d Peterson^s Poem$ 



n PllSrlm^s Cast Prapcn 

God of my hope, I am a wanderer; 

My life has been misspent ; my cup of sin 

Is full, O Lord ! I am a transgressor 

Of thy most holy laws ; — I have so been ; 

But now I look to thee to be my guide ! 

O father of the helpless, turn me not aside! 

God of my hope, slow fades my life's last spark ! 
The rain descends ; and I am far from home ! 
My path is lost ; the night is growing dark ; 
The way is rough, I know not where I roam ! 
My strength is spent; my face in grief I hide, 
O father of the helpless, turn me not aside! 

God of my hope, my feet are bare and torn; 
My limbs are faint ; my thoughts are turned to 

thee! 
My sight grows dim ; O leave me not alone ; 
The stream of life flows swiftly to the sea ! 
The waves are splashing on the darkened tide ! 
O father of the helpless, turn me not aside ! 



A Wish. i3i 



O would I were a little child 
High-tossed upon the foaming billow, 
Or resting 'neath a mother's smile 
Breathing soft on an infant's pillow; 
Unconscious, thoughtless, all the while! 



1S2 Peterson's Poems. 



CO jllicc. 

I trust that my friend will excuse this intru- 
sion, 

(It may be, at its best, but a strange illusion) 

And though I don't know that I have even met 
her, 

I don't think, at least, I shall ever forget her ! 

Still I am haunted by her sweet, childish fea- 
tures — ' 

Which show her loveliest of all of God's crea- 
tures ; 

Still her classic face will not cease to beguile 
me5 

Still my thoughts of her will not cease to revile 
me! 

And, as I am feeling, somehow, somewhat 
frisky, 

I think I shall swallow a few drinks of whiskey. 



To Alice. 133 

All hail to the wine then ! forgetting my lady, 
I'll get drunk to-day if Fm not drunk already ; 
And thank the good Lord, if her He would not 

give me, 
At least he furnished some liquor to relieve 

me! 

I 

This isle of the South, where the sunbeams are 
smiling, 

I hailed, with delight, for a long-promised rest; 

But here, even here, thy sweet face is beguil- 
ing— 

And, maiden, my heart beats for thy gentle 
breast ! 

Here still is that pang which so long has pur- 
sued me — 

That love which consumes its unfortunate fire; 

I cannot forget it ; its glow has subdued me, 

I cannot defy it; its strength will not tire! 

H 

O would that I never had viewed thee while 
passing, 

But turned from thy beauty with scorn and dis- 
dain. 



134 Peterson's Poems. 

And shunned thy sweet presence for that more 

harassing, 
And quelled every thought — ^which, e'en now, 

gives me pain : 
And yet, I but wish that, for once, I had met 

thee 
And spoken the passion I cannot conceal; 
Perhaps, if I had, thou would'st not so forget 

me — 
And leave me to learn the neglect I now feel ! 



Ill 



I know that my life has been given to sorrow. 

To envy, disgrace and to all other woes ; 

What pleases to-day, is but grief on the mor- 
row — 

And the pang's just the same where'er one 
goes: ... 

I feel that no friend is about nor above me. 

And I pine 'neath the gaze of my desolate 
haunts 

And my heart is sad; for I know that I love 
thee ; 

That for thy gentle form my spirit still pants ! 



To Alice. 135 



IV 



A palace, my lady, I have for my dwelling, 
And wealth floats about me in gorgeous attire ; 
My slumbers are sung by sweet symphonies, 

telling 
That revelry rules with his passionate lyre; 
Around me is mirth — with its mists to console 

me, 
My mansion is lit with a maiden's fair grace. 
But O how I long for again to behold thee. 
And dwell in the smile of thine own lovely 

face! 



Vi 



I know that whatever on earth I now cher- 
ish 

Must fade into evening, and soon be forgot ; 

That thou, with the rest, as a shadow, shall 
perish. 

But forget I love thee ! I know I cannot ! 

I know that from pleasure my soul has been 
banished 

And left as an exile upon a strange land, 



136 Peterson's Poems. 

But Fancy forbids that thy form shall have 

vanished ; 
And my heart is still ruled by thine own wizard 

wand! 



VI 



In the west, the God of the day is now dying, 

The fireflies gather to cheer the lone night, 

And Seraphs, in twilight's last spark, are fly- 
ing, 

And heralding dusk with a dancing delight ; 

They sky of thy brow is now pictured before 
me, 

Contentment now reigns where, once, care 
would abide. 

The spell of thy witchery now hovers o'er 
me — 

And sorrow has left me as an eventide! 



Love's Link. 137 



Cooe's Cittk. 

Love has its dream ; its start ; its wake ; 
Its birth's a sigh; its end an ache; 
Its pang; its pilgrimage; its pain; 
Its sacred harp which sings in vain, 
Distorts the life that loves but one. 
And mars the midday of its sun. 

How often have I seen the face 
Whose glow was rapt by woman's grace, 
Succumb to sadness when her smile 
Had left her favorite av/hile, 
And found another charm to start 
The caprice of a woman's heart! 

How often, on this journey here, 
I view who was but too sincere 
Wandering from his native land, 
And dwelling on a lonely strand — 
There, perhaps, to find relief 
Or sink beneath his wave of grief ! 



138 Peterson's Poems. 

It is not fancy which portrays 
The subject of my midnight gaze! 
'Tis not that I delight to show 
The burnings of a secret woe! 
But I have known the fevered sigh 
Which burns the brain, and wets the eye; 

And I have seen strange beings cast 
As mourners o'er a bittered past, 
That will not hide a frenzied sight, 
That cannot bury Love's respite ; 
Whose souls, subdued, at last, will sink 
As victims to Love's lengthening link. 



The Passion of Hate. 139 



Cb« Passion of Rate. 

If every thought in this wide world of care 
Were centered in a single thought ; and if 
That harmony were blended in one wish, 
That wish would cry for vengeance for our 

wrongs, 
And rise to curse the makers of our woe. 
Hate is that sympathy which thwarted lives 
Delight to feed upon. It is that balm 
Which Evil leaves to cheer her followers ; 
Stalking forth only in darkened hours 
It scorns Love, and blights friendship as a 

blast. 
It rides as the lightning — in its own storm. 
Hiding all danger in its beauteous glare, 
And heaving its wave of night midst tempests 
Of despair — undaunted though forsaken, 
Until it makes its misery a heaven. 



140 Peterson's Poems. 

As the frowning precipice which receives 
Shock after shock from the sea-born gale, and 
Trembles with the tremor of dark thunder, 
'Til thunder, gale and crag unite as one. 
Standing defiant as a God, it chides 
Its hurricanes to weeping mists of rain — 
Dismantling all its foes. And Hate is that 
Which cheerless Blight bequeaths to injured 

minds, 
That they may revel in their own despair, 
And hate a world which they could never love. 



My Heart Refuses Rest. 141 



But Still iRp Reart Refuses Rest 

I 

I dwelt in halls of courtly grace, 
Beloved, yet loved not by my race. 
And gorgeous w^ealth and gay attire 
Attended every faint desire ; 
But still my heart refused to rest. 
And still was pain within my breast. 

II 

I left my native land, and sought 
A solitude in climes untaught ; 
I roamed about from sea to sea. 
And stemmed the billow bold and free ; 
But still my heart refused to rest. 
And still was pain within my breast. 



142 Peterson's Poems. 

Ill 

I sat by Amazon's broad stream. 
As though enraptured in a dream, 
And walked beneath her forests' shade. 
And in her wild a home I made; 
But still my heart refused to rest, 
Still was there pain within my breast, 

IV 

I stood on Afric's barren shore. 
And watched the wild Atlantic's roar; 
I viewed her parched plains afar, 
Where sets the lonely Southern star; 
But still my heart refused to rest. 
Still was there pain within my breast. 



I found, myself a distant isle, 
And made myself a lone exile, 
Refused to look upon the past, 
And swept each memory but the last; 
But still my heart refused to rest, 
And still was pain within my breast. 



My Heart Refuses Rest. 143 



VI 



Filled with despair, I sought the home 
From which my early steps did roam ; 
But none were there to cheer my heart ; 
But censure hurled her heedless dart, 
And still my heart refused to rest. 
Still was there pain within my breast. 

VII 

O where! O where! where shall I go, 

To heal this eating taint of woe I 

What clime — ^what land — shall succor me? 

What balm shall set this demon free? 

For still my heart refuses rest, 

And still pain throbs within my breast. 



144 Peterson's Poems. 



Cberc is a Dream; Cbcre i$ a Sleep. 

"Sed omnes una manet nox 
Et calcanda semel via lethi." 
Horace, Book I., Ode xxviii., verse 15. 



There is a dream; there is a sleep 

From which none e'er shall wake to weep ; 

We tread along this world of care, 

And snatch from man our paltry share, 

And bear a load we would not bear ; 

But soon our thoughts must sleep — must sleep. 

II 

There is a dream; there is a sleep! 

We claim a lot we cannot keep, 

For earth must perish 'neath the earth, 

The grave must overtake our mirth. 

For Death was written in our birth ; 

And soon our thoughts must sleep — must sleep. 



There is a Dream. 145 

III 

There is a dream; there is a sleep 

Which soon must chill the youthful cheek, 

Which soon must fade the sunny eye, 

Which soon must dark the Summer sky. 

And bring an end to every sigh; 

For Thought, at last, must sleep— must sleep. 

IV 

There is a dream ; there is a sleep 

Which o'er this form at last shall creep. 

And hide this world of bitterness, 

And bring one word of tenderness ; 

And perhaps one of forgiveness; 

When this raked brain shall sleep— shall sleep. 

V 

There is a dream ; there is a sleep, 

There is a restful calm so deep, 

Which soon shall change all human things, 

Which soon shall still the heart's strung 

strings, 
And which soon from this spirit wrings 
The thoughts which, here, refuse to sleep. 



146 Peterson's Poems. 



VI 



There is a dream"; there is a sleep 
Which stills all woe in its broad sweep. 
O what for woe shall it replace, 
When I shall meet it face to face 
Beside the Lethe's dark-running race, 
When all my thoughts are drowned in sleep ? 

VII 

There is a dream; there is a sleep — 
We all have harvests here to reap — 
When we shall wake from our dream. 
When Light shall break the tomb's last seam, 
Or Hell shall drift us down its stream; 
Then we shall sleep, forever sleep. 

VIII 

There is a dream; there is a sleep 
From which none e'er shall wake to weep. 
There comes a time when strife must cease, 
When grief must stop, and joy increase; 
There is a haven-land of peace 
When we shall sleep ; when we shall sleep. 



The Judgment. H'^ 



*<Eryvxicov Ava^ \ Sophocles, CEdip. Colon, verse 1682. 
^iWxi" UEdit. Johnson.) 

I dwelt among the clouds— the thunderbolts, 
And mingled with the storm and mist and ram : 
Deep shades hung their coils about me. 

I became 
A child of Chaos and of Night and, on 
Their spectered shrouds of mysteries, I 

breathed 
Seraphic ether. 

And the elements, 
Ungentle as they were, became as breasts 
Whereon I did lay, sailing silently 
Over a listless sea of drifting gloom 
Rolling in dark distress. 



148 Peterson's Poems. 

The universe, 
Shapeless and void, swung from infinitude 
Over a pit of reflected blackness 
As the shadow of a noiseless vision 
Draped in rain, and dreamed in the land of 

myths ; 
Or as a pendulum of unborn Time, 
It swung its dusky pace from cloud to cloud. 
And reckoned with its mournful melody, 
In dim sepulchral strides, the pulse of Fate's 
Eternal, Argus, sentinel. 

I looked! 
There was no sun, no moon, nor starry sky ; 
No changing seasons ; no sea ; no river. 
Save of the inky sea of Night, or of 
The rushing river of a mighty ruin 
Which swept me on in its strong stream. 

I looked! 
Behold! a Thing of Light flamed from the 

North, 
And broke the darkness from my gale-born 

couch ; 
My vision became blinded as a blank; 
Mine eyes hid in their sockets as two stones ; 
My being burned with radiance. 



The Judgment. 149 

I sunk 
Beneath tht awful radiance. 

A hand 
Was laid upon my prostrate form. 

A voice 
Spake, and Chaos trembled with dark thun- 
der — 
As in a moment I was changed. 

I saw, 
Beside me a Great Spirit clothed in fire. 
He grasped me in his dexter grasp, and placed 
My being in his flaming bosom. 

Wings, 
Like two blazoned skies o'er a vale of death. 
Whistled as the shrieking of an ocean — 
He soared ; he soared ; he soared. 

And on and on, 
In his passionless bosom, was I borne. 
Till sweeping by the sources of the Winds, 
And speeding past the Lightning's aged tower. 



150 Peterson's Poems. 

And passing e'en the agate gates of heaven, 
He hurled me o'er a mighty eminence 
Far out upon the lazy wings of Night. — 
I drifted— I drifted;— I fell 

Behold! 
In a moment was I changed ; by the side 
Of a fevered mother's breast was I laid — 
But O how helpless ! and my soul was bound 
About by a strange decay known as flesh. 
Hark ! I was but a babe ! but a struggling 
Thing of life on the morning of a day. 
Strange beings gazed upon me ; and I heard 
Strange voices speak in stranger languages. 
No more I swept the raging tempests; 
No more I dwelt upon my mountain heights — 
Alas! 

'Twas night again. About me slept 
An aching world. Beside me, still, in rest, 
My wakeless mother's breathings now were 

hushed. 
I placed my hand upon her breast; that breast 
Was cold in the chill of frigid death. 
My baby lios pressed 'gainst her dugs, but ice 
Had frozen fast the free maternal stream. 



The Judgment. 151 

K moonbeam rested on her silent lips, 

Yet feared to pierce her eyes which stared me 

dumb; 
And hark ! I heard a rushing wind. My limbs 
Were paralyzed in unnamed fear ; alone 
I laid. 

Before me moved a grim specter. 
His ashened face was prest against my lips; 
He breathed his wizard breath into my breast; 
And, stretching his cold fingers o'er my brow, 
Set a dark seal upon my temples. 

Hark! 
lYears had flown; swift-gliding seasons had 

stole 
Long marches, and I had merged in childhood. 
I wandered 'bout the open fields, and roamed 
Beside the mighty ocean, and I braved 
The rivers' dashing currents in my glee. 
But I was sad, and yet I knew not why; 
A demon seemed to haunt me ; and upon 
My face was written a strange sign. 

My breast 
Was filled with strange emotion. 



152 Peterson's Poems. 

I wts not 
As ©thers whd walked ©n the earth ; nor did 
I become as them. I could not ! 

Aloof 
I held myself from all mankind, and dwelt 
Alone with Nature, for I seemed to love 
The things inanimate with others. 

Hark! 
Years had flown ; swift-winged years upon the 
Page of Time. Childhood had merged in 

manhood. 
As a mountain did I stand against the world; 
Filled with strange fire and yet unmovable — 
Warm from within, yet cold and bleak without. 

That fire did prey upon the springs of life; 
It ate my heart away, and agonized 
My discontented mind. 

I left the world ; 
I wandered over unfrequented seas, 
And walked on barren soils — where ne*er Had 

trod 
The footprints of a human step. 



The Judgment." 153 

I roamed — 
I roamed. My brain was dark, and in despair 
I cursed all Nature — all Infinitude. 
That curse did rebound on my soul. 

A storm 
Had set its strength against my feeble craft. 
The winds ne'er howled more loudly, and the 

waves 
Ne'er tossed so in their leaps into the sky; 
The sky repulsed their charge with bolts of 

fire: 
And now my ship had sunk beneath the tides, 
I drifted upon the angered waters. 
And now my strength was gone. 

And all was dark — 
And all was dark ; I sunk ; I sunk ; I sunk ; 
And gloom encircled me. 

In a moment 
Was I changed into a brooding tempest 
Sweeping from ocean to ocean. 

The cloud 
Again was my rude pillow, and the breeze 
[Again was m^ enchantress. 



154 Peterson's Poems. 1 

I did ride 
Upon the bold ocean billow, and dashed 
The instruments of man into the deep. 

And in a moment was I changed to mist 
And Night and Chaos ; there was no earth, sea 
Nor sun ; nor moon or starry sky ; and Dark 
Reigned as a dim specter over Midnight ; 
There was no water save a lake of ink 
Wherein I drifted. 

And this is judgment — 
OPre-judged e'er infancy; and nursed in crime; 
And set upon a shore of misery; 
And cursed e'er life is cast into the breath; 
And flung from rock to rock ; and torn 
In pain. 

Alas! a struggle against strife, 
Yet where all strife is vain, to end at last 
In chilled death forevermore. 



Notes. 155 

XI-L 

'The banquet halls are lit, fair women sing 
And aged wine fills revelry with smiles." 

The Spaniard is decidedly an evening reveler, and 
those parts of the South seas that are inhabited by the 
Spanish people are, almost every evening, the scenes 
of gay and reckless dances. 

It is the custom of all trading vessels before they 
enter a strange harbor to spend a day or so outside 
of the bar, in order that the captain may make ar- 
rangements for landing his cargo. On such occasions, 
those who desire may go on shore in the lifeboats, as 
soon as the vessel secures an anchorage. 

A person of rank is at once recognized by the Spanish 
officials, and generally receives an invitation to attend 
these festivities above referred to. 

The author has frequently been a visitor to these 
places, and has always been accorded an enthusiastic 
welcome. The people are very friendly, and are highly 
cultivated in all of the celebrated arts. Their music 
is highly classical; their paintings and sculpture are 
of the dramatic order, generally representing some wild 
scene of adventure or some passionate romance suited 
to the clime; their poetry is generally on the Italian 
order— a singsong dingle-dangle — filled with mirth and 
myth, and generally representing heroes of wild and 
oftentimes, lewd dispositions, and concluding with some 
unheard-of tragedy that fills the soul with horror. 
They have great talent for music. 

XII— I. 

"Or dwelling on a shore untaught to strange beauty;" 
The author refers to natural beauty — the beauty giveij 



156 Notes. 

by the God of Nature as distinguished from artificial 
beauty. 

One who has frequented the distant islands of the 
South seas, will detect the sublime and natural beauty 
of those shores that have not as yet been trampled 
under the foot of man — their grandeur surpasses any 
scenery in the world. 

XXXI— I. 

"Reposing on a distant western isle." 

This refers to the demolition of the city of Galveston, 
in the month of September, 1900. The following is the 
statement which was given of the catastrophe imme- 
diately after its occurrence. 

"The most appalling calamity in the history of modern 
times has befallen Galveston. Everywhere there is 
death and ruin and desolation. A great commercial 
city is stricken with misfortune, and her people appeal 
to the outside world for help. Parents mourn their 
children, and children mourn their parents by the 
terrible hurricane which swept all of South Texas 
Saturday and Saturday night. 

"The damage to business and residence property is 
beyond computation. The city is almost ruined. The 
wharf front is almost gone. Every ocean steamer is 
stranded. No pen can depict, or language adequately 
describe the awfulness of the situation. It is simply 
immense, unparalleled, and even those who went 
through the experience of the storm and survived, are 
so dazed they can hardly realize the enormity of the 
loss. A stricken city is in misfortune, and asks the 
people of the country to send food and clothing and 
water. 



Notes. iSIf 

"Galveston is situated on an island extending east and 
west for twenty-seven miles, and is seven miles in its 
greatest width north and south. No city could be in 
greater danger with such a horrible visitation as has 
come to Galveston. In no part of the city, with its 
68,000 population, is it more than six feet above the sea 
level. The flat condition now only points to the des- 
peration of the situation of the people at such a time 
as this ; but their danger may be considered emphasized 
when it is known that exactly where the city is built 
the island is only one and one-quarter miles wide. 

'The storm commenced raging between nine and 
ten o'clock Saturday morning, and by noon the waters 
of the Gulf had inundated the island as far inland as 
Twelfth street. From there the waters were gradually 
encroaching further inland, rising about fifteen inches 
an hour. At six p. m. there was thirty-six inches of 
water in the lobbies of the Tremont Hotel, the highest 
point in the city. The storm increased in fury with the 
hours of the night, the wind reaching a velocity of 
eighty-four miles an hour, and then the instruments of 
the Government Observatory were wrecked. 

"When morning dawned the city was in ruins." 



XLV— I. 

"The sunset sky that's pictured o'er her fate." 

In Carthage, just before the sun sets, it assumes a 
hectic hue as though it were setting for its last time. 
Such attracts one immediately, when he remembers 
the untimely fate of ancient Carthage. 



158 Notes. 



XLVI— I 
"The mother of the arts, who cradled Rome," 

It seems unnecessary to state that the Romans de- 
rived, practically, all of their knowledge of the fine arts 
from the example of Greece. 

LX— I 
"How! how! could he appease a mother's pain!" 

France is here spoken of as having been the mother 
soil of Napoleon. While it is true that Napoleon was 
by birth a Corsican, yet he allied himself with France 
(to which government he was then no alien), and 
his destiny rose and set with that of the French. 

When Corsica was struggling for independence under 
the leadership of General Paoli, Napoleon was ofifered 
a command over the insurgents, but refused it, stating 
that "Corsica could never maintain its independence." 
Which showed that he felt himself more closely allied 
to France than to Corsica. To say the least, he was 
an adopted son. 

LXVIII— I 

"Makes Summer Autumn's eve, and Spring of Winter's 
noon." 

The natural temperature of Havana is tempered by 
the continuous breeze which blows from the Gulf, mak- 
ing it not disagreeable in the summer, and giving it 
the touch of our spring during the winter months. 



Notes. 159 

LXIX— I 
"And awful sounds which in her dungeons stay." 

Just below The Palace in Havana, may be seen the 
ancient prison erected by Sir Francis Drake when he 
landed on the island. This prison originally fronted 
the Gulf of Mexico, and guarded the pass which opens 
Havana Bay into the Gulf. Its walls are estimated 
to be sixteen feet in thickness in some parts, and are 
built of rugged stone. 

The dungeons of this prison are very damp and deep, 
and are enclosed by heavy iron gates. The waters of 
the bay roll against its south side, producing strange 
sounds within the dungeons — ghostlike sounds — which 
vary with the violence of the wind and waves outside. 

LXX—I. 

"The mansion Catharina's spirit guard." 

' Catharina was a young and beautiful princess who, 
it is alleged, was banished from Spain by her father 
because of her affection for a young Italian nobleman. 
She was confined in the prison in Havana for two or 
three years, and, when about to be set free by her lover, 
died of a broken heart. Her spirit is said to haunt 
The Palace in Havana, as well as the room lately oc- 
cupied by the archives of the Spanish government. 

LXXIII. 

"At Portersville, or Petti-bois' shore;" 

Portersville is a small hamlet situated on the ex- 
treme Southern coast of Alabama. The author spent 
much of his childhood at this place in search of health 



160 Notes. 

and strength. Petti-bois' island^is a small island lying 
just off the Mississippi coast. The author would fre- 
quently make excursions to the island from Porters- 
ville, with seafaring men. 

C-I. 

"A fit spot is Huelva in decay. 

It is said that the bells of distant Huelva chimed 
the departure of Columbus on his first voyage of dis- 
covery to the New World. 

If one could stand by the river Tinto, just as the 
evening is dying, and hear those bells chime again, he 
would forget the decay and desolation which Huelva 
presents. I regard the place as one of the most beauti- 
ful as well as historic places in the world. 



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